INTO 


'HV. 


IN  THE  BISHOP'S  CARRIAGE 


Miss  JESSIE  BUSLEY,  NOW  PLAYING  "NANCE"  IN 
"IN  THE  BISHOP'S  CARRIAGE." 


IN  THE  BISHOP'S 
CARRIAGE 


BY 

MIRIAM  MICHELSON 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HARRISON   FISHER 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 
BY  MIRIAM 


COPYRIGHT,  1904 
THE  BOBBS-MRRRHJ;  COMPANY 


IN  THE  BISHOP'S  CARRIAGE 


260129 


THE  BISHOPS  CARRIAGE 


When  the  thing  was  at  its  hottest,  T  bolted.  Tom, 
like  the  darling  he  is —  (Yes,  you  are,  old  fellows 
you're  as  precious  to  me  as — as  you  are  to  the  po~ 
lice — if  they  could  only  get  their  hands  on  you)-—1 
well,  Tom  drew  off  tho  crowd,  having  passed  the 
old  gentleman's  watch  to  me,  and  I  made  for  th® 
women's  rooms. 

The  station  was  crowded,  as  it  always  is  in  tK<8 
afternoon,  and  in  a  minute  I  was  strolling  into  ths 
big,  square  room,  saying  slowly  to  myself  to  keep 
me  steady : 

"Nancy,  you're  a  college  girl — just  in  from 
Bryn  Mawr  to  meet  your  papa.  Just  see  if  yotii 
hat's  on  straight." 

I  did,  going  up  to  the  big  glass  and  looking  be* 
yond  my  excited  face  to  the  room  behind  me.  The??? 
sat  the  woman  who  can  never  nurse  her  baby  «x=- 

1 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

eept  where  everybody  can  see  her,  in  a  railroad  sta 
tion.  There  was  the  woman  who's  always  hungry, 
nibbling  chocolates  out  of  a  box;  and  the  woman 
fallen  asleep,  with  her  hat  on  the  side,  and  hairpins 
dropping  out  of  her  hair;  and  the  woman  who's 
beside  herself  with  fear  that  she'll  miss  her  train; 
and  the  woman  who  is  taking  notes  about  the  other 
women's  rigs.  And — 

And  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  that  man  with  the 
cap  who  opened  the  swinging  door  a  bit  and  peeped 
in.  The  women's  waiting-room  is  no  place  for  a 
man — nor  for  a  girl  who's  got  somebody  else's 
watch  inside  her  waist.  Luckily,  my  back  was 
toward  him,  but  just  as  the  door  swung  back  he 
might  have  caught  the  reflection  of  my  face  in  a 
mirror  hanging  opposite  to  the  big  one. 

I  retreated,  going  to  an  inner  room  where  the 
ladies  were  having  the  maid  brush  their  gowns, 
soiled  from  suburban  travel  and  the  dirty  station. 

The  deuce  is  in  it  the  way  women  stare.  I  took 
,iff  my  hat  and  jacket  for  a  reason  to  stay  there? 
9.nd  hung  them  up  as  leisurely  as  I  could. 

-* Nance,"  I  said  under  my  breath,  to  the  alert-' 
syed,  pug-nosed  girl  in  the  mirror,  who  gfim?  a 
quick  glance  about  the  room  as  I  bent  k 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

hands,  "women  stare  'cause  they're  women.  There'* 
no  meaning  in  their  look.  If  they  were  men,  TIOW. 
you  might  twitter." 

I  smoothed  my  hair  and  reached  out  my  hand  to 
get  my  hat  and  jacket  when — when — 

Oh,  it  was  long ;  long  enough  to  cover  you  from 
your  chin  to  your  heels !  It  was  a  dark,  warm  red, 
and  it  had  a  high  collar  of  chinchilla  that  was  fairly 
scrumptious.  And  just  above  it  the  hat  hung,  a 
red-cloth  toque  caught  up  on  the  side  with  some  of 
the  same  fur. 

The  black  maid  misunderstood  my  involuntary 
gesture.  I  had  all  my  best  duds  on,  and  when  a  lot 
of  women  stare  it  makes  the  woman  they  stare  at 
peacock  naturally,  and — and — well,  ask  Tom  what 
he  thinks  of  my  style  when  I'm  on  parade.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  the  maid's  fault.  She  took  down 
the  coat  and  hat  and  held  them  for  me  as  though 
they  were  mine.  What  could  I  do,  'cept  just  slip 
into  the  silk-lined  beauty  and  set  the  toque  on  my 
head?  The  fool  girl  that  owned  them  was  having 
another  maid  mend  a  tear  in  her  skirt,  over  in  the 
corner;  the  little  place  was  crowded.  Anyway,  I 
had  both  the  coat  and  hat  on  and  was  out  into  th* 
big  anteroom  in  a  jiffy* 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

What  nearly  wrecked  me  was  the  cut  of  that  coat 
It  positively  made  me  shiver  with  pleasure  when  I 
passed  and  saw  myself  in  that  long  mirror.  My, 
but  I  was  great !  The  hang  of  that  coat,  the  long, 
incurving  sweep  in  the  back,  and  the  high  fur  col 
lar  up  to  one's  nose — even  if  it  is  a  turned-up  nose 
—oh! 

I  stayed  and  looked  a  second  too  long,  for  just 
as  I  was  pulling  the  flaring  hat  a  bit  over  my  face, 
the  doors  swung,  as  an  old  lady  came  in,  and  there 
behind  her  was  that  same  curious  man's  face  with 
the  cap  above  it. 

Trapped?  Me?  Not  much!  I  didn't  wait  a 
minute,  but  threw  the  doors  open  with  a  gesture 
that  might  have  belonged  to  the  Queen  of  Spain.  I 
almost  ran  into  his  arms.  He  gave  an  exclama 
tion.  I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  as  I  hooked 
the  collar  close  to  my  throat,  and  swept  past  him. 

He  weakened.  That  coat  was  too  jolly  much  for 
him.  It  was  for  me,  too.  As  I  ran  down  the  stairs, 
its  influence  so  worked  on  me  that  I  didn't  know 
just  which  Vanderbilt  I  was. 

I  got  out  on  the  sidewalk  all  right,  and  was  just 
about  to  take  a  car  when  the  turnstile  swung  round, 
and  there  was  that  same  man  with  the  cap.  His  facf 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

was  a  funny  mixture  of  doubt  and  determination: 
'  But  it  meant  the  Correction  for  me. 

"Nance  Olden,  it's  over,"  I  said  to  myself. 

But  it  wasn't.  For  it  was  then  that  I  caught 
sight  of  the  carriage.  It  was  a  fat,  low,  comfort 
able,  elegant,  sober  carriage,  wide  and  well-kept, 
with  rubber-tired  wheels.  And  the  two  heavy  horses 
were  fat  and  elegant  and  sober,  too,  and  wide  and 
well-kept.  I  didn't  know  it  was  the  Bishop's  then — 
I  didn't  care  whose  it  was.  It  was  empty,  and  it 
was  mine.  I'd  rather  go  to  the  Correction — being 
too  young  to  get  to  the  place  you're  bound  for,  Tom 
Dorgan — in  it  than  in  the  patrol  wagon.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  all  the  chance  I  had. 

I  slipped  in,  closing  the  door  sharply  behind  me. 
The  man  on  the  box — he  was  wide  and  well-kept, 
too — was  tired  waiting,  I  suppose,  for  he  contin 
ued  to  doze  gently,  his  high  coachman's  collar  up 
over  his  ears.  I  cursed  that  collar,  which  had  pre 
vented  his  hearing  the  door  close,  for  then  he  might 
have  driven  off. 

But  it  was  great  inside :  soft  and  warm,  the  cush 
ions  of  dark  plum,  the  seat  wide  and  roomy,  a 
church  paper,  some  notes  for  the  Bishop's  next  ser 
mon  and  a  copy  of  Quo  Vadis.  I  just  onuggkf? 

5 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

down,  trust  me.  I  leaned  far  back  and  lay  low. 
When  I  did  peek  out  the  window,  I  saw  the  man 
with  the  brass  buttons  and  the  cap  turning  to  go 
inside  again. 

Victory!  He  had  lost  the  scent.  Who  would 
look  for  Nancy  Olden  in  the  Bishop's  carriage? 

Now,  you  know  how  early  I  got  up  yesterday  to 
catch  the  train  so's  Tom  and  I  could  come  in  with 
the  people  and  be  naturally  mingling  with  them? 
And  you  remember  the  dance  the  night  before?  I 
hadn't  had  more  than  three  hours'  sleep,  and  the 
snug  warmth  of  that  coach  was  just  nuts  to  me, 
after  the  freezing  ride  into  town.  I  didn't  dare  get 
out  for  fear  of  some  other  man  in  a  cap  and  buttons 
somewhere  on  the  lookout.  I  knew  they  couldn't 
be  on  to  my  hiding-place  or  they'd  have  nabbed  me 
before  this.  After  a  bit  I  didn't  want  to  get  out,  I 
was  so  warm  and  comfortable — and  elegant.  O 
Tom,  you  should  have  seen  your  Nance  in  that  coat 
and  in  the  Bishop's  carriage ! 

First  thing  I  knew,  I  was  dreaming  you  and  I 
were  being  married,  and  you  had  brass  buttons  all 
aver  you,  and  I  had  the  cloak  all  right,  byt  it  was  a 
wedding-dress,  and  the  chinchilla  was  ai-  ;  .'my  sort 


6 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

of  orange  blossoms,  and — and  I  waked  when  the 
handle  of  the  door  turned  and  the  Bishop  got  in. 

Asleep?   That's  what!    I'd  actually  been  asleep. 

And  what  did  I  do  now  ? 

That's  easy — fell  asleep  again.  There  wasn't 
anything  else  to  do.  Not  really  asleep  this  time, 
you  know;  just,  just  asleep  enough  to  be  wide 
awake  to  any  chance  there  was  in  it. 

The  horses  had  started,  and  the  carriage  was 
half-way  across  the  street  before  the  Bishop  no 
ticed  me. 

He  was  a  little  Bishop,  not  big  and  fat  and  well- 
kept  like  the  rig,  but  short  and  lean,  with  a  little 
white  beard  and  the  softest  eye — and  the  softest 
heart — and  the  softest  head.  Just  listen. 

"Lord  bless  me !"  he  exclaimed,  hurriedly  putting 
on  his  spectacles,  and  looking  about  bewildered. 

I  was  slumbering  sweetly  in  the  corner,  but  I 
could  see  between  my  lashes  that  he  thought  he'd 
jumped  into  somebody  else's  carriage. 

The  sight  of  his  book  and  his  papers  comforted 
him,  though,  and  before  he  could  make  a  resolution, 
I  let  the  jolting  of  the  carriage,  as  it  crossed  the 
car-trac  irow  me  gently  against  him. 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Daddy,"  I  murmured  sleepily,  letting  my  head 
rest  on  his  little,  prim  shoulder. 

That  comforted  him,  too.  Hush  your  laughing, 
Tom  Dorgan ;  I  mean  calling  him  "daddy"  seemed 
to  kind  of  take  the  cuss  off  the  situation. 

"My  child,"  he  began  very  gently. 

"Oh,  daddy,"  I  exclaimed,  snuggling  down  close 
to  him,  "you  kept  me  waiting  so  long  I  went  to 
sleep.  I  thought  you'd  never  come." 

He  put  his  arm  about  my  shoulders  in  a  fatherly 
way.  You  know,  I  found  out  later  the  Bishop 
never  had  had  a  daughter.  I  guess  he  thought  he 
had  one  now.  Such  a  simple,  dear  old  soul !  Just 
the  same,  Tom  Dorgan,  if  he  had  been  my  father, 
I'd  never  be  doing  stunts  with  tipsy  men's  watches 
for  you ;  nor  if  I'd  had  any  father.  Now,  don't  get 
mad.  Think  of  the  Bishop  with  his  gentle,  thin  old 
arm  about  my  shoulders,  holding  me  for  just  a 
second  as  though  I  was  his  daughter !  My,  think  of 
it!  And  me,  Nance  Olden,  with  that  fat  man's 
watch  in  my  waist  and  some  girl's  beautiful  long 
coat  and  hat  on,  all  covered  with  chinchilla ! 

"There's  some  mistake,  my  little  girl,"  he  said, 
shaking  me  gently  to  wake  me  up,  for  I  was  going 
to  sleep  again,  he  feared. 

8 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  were  kept  at  the  office,"  I  in 
terrupted  quickly.  I  preferred  to  be  farther  from 
the  station  with  that  girl's  red  coat  before  I  got  out. 
"We've  missed  our  train,  anyway,  haven't  we? 
After  this,  daddy  dear,  let's  not  take  this  route.  If 
we'd  go  straight  through  on  the  one  road,  \ve 
wouldn't  have  this  drive  across  town  every  time.  I 
was  wondering,  before  I  fell  asleep,  what  in  the 
world  I'd  do  in  this  big  city  if  you  didn't  come." 

He  forgot  to  withdraw  his  arm,  so  occupied  was 
he  by  my  predicament. 

"What  would  you  do,  my  child,  if  you  had — had 
missed  your — your  father?" 

Wasn't  it  clumsy  of  him  ?  He  wanted  to  break  it 
to  me  gently,  and  this  was  the  best  he  could  do. 

"What  would  I  do?"  I  gasped  indignantly. 
"Why,  daddy,  imagine  me  alone,  and — and  with 
out  money !  Why — why,  how  can  you — " 

"There!  there!"  he  said,  patting  me  soothingly 
on  the  shoulder. 

That  baby  of  a  Bishop !  The  very  thought  of 
Nancy  Olden  out  alone  in  the  streets  was  too  much 
for  him. 

He  had  put  his  free  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
had  just  taken  out  a  bill  and  was  trying  to  plan  a 

9 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

way  to  offer  it  to  me  and  reveal  the  fact  to  poor, 
modest  little  Nance  Olden  that  he  was  not  her  own 
daddy,  when  an  awful  thing  happened. 

We  had  got  up  street  as  far  as  the  opera-house, 
when  we  were  caught  in  the  jam  of  carriages  in 
front;  the  last  afternoon  opera  of  the  season  was 
just  over.    I  was  so  busy  thinking  what  would  be 
my  next  move  that  I  didn't  notice  much  outside- 
and  I  didn't  want  to  move,  Tom,  not  a  bit.  Playing 
the  Bishop's  daughter  in  a  trailing  coat  of  red, 
trimmed  with  chinchilla,  is  just  your  Nancy's  graft. 
But  the  dear  little  Bishop  gave  a  jump  that  almosl 
knocked  the  roof  off  the  carriage,  pulled  his  arm 
from  behind  me  and  dropped  the  ten-dollar  bill  he 
held  as  though  it  burned  him.     It  fell  in  my  lap. 
I  jammed  it  into  my  coat  pocket.    Where  is  it  now  ? 
Just  you  wait,  Tom  Dorgan,  and  you'll  find  out. 

I  followed  the  Bishop's  eyes.  His  face  was  scarlet 
•now.     Right  next  to  our  carriage— mine  and  the 
Bishop's— there  was  another;  not  quite  so  fat  and 
heavy  and  big,  but  smart,  I  tell  you,  with  the  silver 
harness   jangling   and   the  horses   arching   then 
backs  under  their  blue-cloth  jackets  monogrammed 
in  leather.    All  the  same,  I  couldn't  see  anything  to 
cause  a  loving  father  to  let  go  his  onliest  daughter 
10 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

in  such  a  hurry,  till  the  old  lady  inside  bent  forward 
again  and  gave  us  another  look. 

Her  face  told  it  then.    It  was  a  big,  smooth  face, 

with  accordion-plaited  chins.     Her  hair  was  white 

and  her  nose  was  curved,  and  the  pearls  in  her  big 

ears  brought  out  every  ugly  spot  on  her  face.    Her 

lips  were  thin,  and  her  neck,  hung  with  diamonds, 

looked  like  a  bed  with  bolsters  and  pillows  piled 

high,  and  her  eyes— oh,  Tom,  her  eyes!     They 

were  little  and  very  gray,  and  they  bored  their  way 

straight   through   the   windows—hers   and   ours— 

and  hit  the  Bishop  plumb  in  the  face. 

My,  if  I  could  only  have  laughed !    The  Bishop, 

flie  dear,  prim  little  Bishop  in  his  own  carriage, 

ith  his  arm  about  a  young  woman  in  red  and  chFn- 

illa,  offering  her  a  bank-note,  and  Mrs.  Dowager 

Diamonds,  her  eyes  popping  out  of  her  head  at  the 

sight,  and  she  one  of  the  lady  pillars  of  his  church 

-oh,  Tom!  it  took  all  of  this  to  make  that  poor 

innocent  next  to  me  realize  how  he  looked  in  her 

eyes. 

But  you  see  it  was  over  in  a  minute.  The  car 
riage  wheels  were  unlocked,  and  the  blue  coupe  went 
whirling  away,  and  we  in  the  plum-cushioned  car 
riage  followed  slowly. 

11 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  decided  that  Fd  had  enough.  Now  and  here 
in  the  middle  of  all  these  carriages  was  a  bully  good 
time  and  place  for  me  to  get  away.  I  turned  to  the 
Bishop.  He  was  blushing  like  a  boy.  I  blushed, 
too.  Yes,  I  did,  Tom  Dorgan,  but  it  was  because  I 
was  bursting  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  dear!"  I  exclaimed  in  sudden  dismay. 
"You're  not  my  father." 

"No — no,  my  dear,  I — I'm  not,"  he  stammered, 
his  face  purple  now  with  embarrassment.  "I  was 
just  trying  to  tell  you,  you  poor  little  girl,  of  your 
mistake  and  planning  a  way  to  help  you,  when — " 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair  toward  the  side 
where  the  coupe  had  been. 

I  covered  my.  face  with  my  hands,  and  shrinking 
over  into  the  corner,  I  cried : 

"Let  me  out !  let  me  out !  You're  not  my  father. 
Oh,  let  me  out!" 

"Why,  certainly,  child.  But  I'm  old  enough, 
surely,  to  be,  and  I  wish — I  wish  I  were." 

"You  do!" 

The  dignity  and  tenderness  and  courtesy  in  his 
voice  sort  of  sobered  me.  But  all  at  once  I  remem 
bered  the  face  of  Mrs.  Dowager  Diamonds,  and  I 
understood. 

12 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Oh,  because  of  her,"  I  said,  smiling  and  point 
ing  to  the  side  where  the  coupe  had  been. 

My,  but  it  was  a  rotten  bad  move !  I  ought  to 
have  been  strapped  for  it.  Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  it  takes 
more'n  a  red  coat  with  chinchilla  to  make  a  black 
hearted  thing  like  me  into  the  girl  he  thought  I  was. 

He  stiffened  and  sat  up  like  a  prim  little  school 
boy,  his  soft  eyes  hurt  like  a  dog's  that's  been 
wounded. 

I  won't  tell  you  what  I  did  then.  No,  I  won't. 
And  you  won't  understand,  but  just  that  minute  I 
cared  more  for  what  he  thought  of  me  than  whether 
I  got  to  the  Correction  or  anywhere  else. 

It  made  us  friends  in  a  minute,  and  when  he 
stopped  the  carriage  to  let  me  out,  my  hand  was 
still  in  his.  But  I  wouldn't  go.  I'd  made  up  my 
mind  to  see  him  out  of  his  part  of  the  scrape,  and 
first  thing  you  know  we  were  driving  up  toward  the 
Square,  if  you  please,  to  Mrs.  Dowager  Diamonds' 
house. 

He  thought  it  was  his  scheme,  the  poor  lamb,  to 
put  me  in  her  charge  till  my  lost  daddy  could  send 
for  me.  He'd  no  more  idea  that  I  was  steering  him 
toward  her,  that  he  was  doing  the  only  thing  possi 
ble,  the  only  square  thing  by  his  reputation,  than 
13 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

he  had  that  Nance  Olden  had  been  raised  by  the 
Cruelty,  and  then  flung  herself  away  on  the  first 
handsome  Irish  boy  she  met. 

That'll  do,  Tom. 

Girls,  if  you  could  have  seen  Mrs.  Dowager  Dia 
monds'  face  when  she  came  down  the  stairs,  the 
Bishop's  card  in  her  hand,  and  into  the  gorgeous 
parlor,  it'd  have  been  as  good  as  a  front  seat  at  the 
show. 

She  was  mad,  and  she  was  curious,  and  she  was 
amazed,  and  she  was  disarmed;  for  the  very  nerve 
of  his  bringing  me  to  her  staggered  her  so  that  she 
could  hardly  believe  she'd  seen  what  she  had. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Ramsay,"  he  began,  confused  a 
bit  by  his  remembrance  of  how  her  face  had  looked 
fifteen  minutes  before,  "I  bring  to  you  an  unfor 
tunate  child,  who  mistook  my  carriage  for  her 
father's  this  afternoon  at  the  station.  She  is  a  col 
lege  girl,  a  stranger  in  town,  and  till  her  father 
claims  her — " 

Oh,  the  baby  !  the  baby !  She  was  stiffening  like 
a  rod  before  his  very  eyes.  How  did  his  words  ex 
plain  his  having  his  arm  round  the  unfortunate 
child?  His  conscience  was  so  clean  that  the  dear 
little  man  actually  overlooked  the  fact  that  it  wasn't 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

my  presence  in  the  carriage,  but  his  conduct  there 
that  had  excited  Mrs.  Dowager  Diamonds. 

And  didn't  the  story  sound  thin?  I  tell  you, 
Tom,  when  it  comes  to  lying  to  a  woman  you've  got 
to  think  up  something  stronger  than  it  takes  to 
make  a  man  believe  in  }TOU — if  you  happen  to  be  fe 
male  yourself. 

I  didn't  wait  for  him  to  finish,  but  waltzed  right 
in.  I  danced  straight  up  to  that  side  of  beef  »vith 
the  diamonds  still  on  it,  and  flinging  my  arms  about 
her,  turned  a  coy  eye  on  the  Bishop. 

"You  said  your  wife  was  out  of  town,  daddy,"  I 
cried  gaily.  "Have  you  got  another  wife  besides 
mummy  ?" 

The  poor  Bishop!  Do  you  think  he  tumbled? 
Not  a  bit — not  a  bit.  He  sat  there  gasping  like  a 
fish,  and  Mrs.  Dowager  Diamonds,  surprised  by  my 
sudden  attack,  stood  bolt  upright,  about  as  pleas 
ant  to  hug  as — as  you  are,  Tom,  when  you're  jeal 
ous. 

The  trouble  with  the  Bishop's  set  is  that  it's 
deadly  slow.  Now,  if  I  had  really  been  the  Bishop's 
daughter — all  right,  I'll  go  on. 

"Oh,  mummy,"  I  went  on  quickly.  You  know 
how  I  said  it,  Tom — the  way  I  told  you  after  that 
15 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

last  row  that  Dan  Christensen  wasn't  near  so  good- 
looking  as  you — remember?  "Oh,  mummy,  you 
don't  know  how  good  it  feels  to  get  home.  Out  there 
at  that  awful  college,  studying  and  studying  and 
studying,  sometimes  I  thought  I'd  lose  my  senses. 
There's  a  girl  out  there  now  suffering  from  nervous 
prostration.  She  worked  so  hard  preparing  for  the 
mid-years.  What's  her  name?  I  can't  think — I 
cai.'t  think,  my  head's  so  tired.  But  it  sounds  like 
mine,  a  lot  like  mine.  Once — I  think  it  was  yester 
day — I  thought  it  was  mine,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  suddenly  to  come  right  home  and  bring  it  with 
me.  But  it  can't  be  mine,  can  it?  It  can't  be  my 
name  she's  got.  It  can't  be,  mummy,  say  it  can't, 
say  it  can't !" 

Tom,  I  ought  to  have  gone  on  the  stage.  I'll  go 
yet,  when  you're  sent  up  some  day.  Yes,  I  will. 
You'll  be  where  you  can't  stop  me. 

I  couldn't  see  the  Bishop,  but  the  Dowager — oh, 
I'd  got  her.  Not  so  bad  an  old  body,  either,  if  you 
only  take  her  the  right  way.  First,  she  was  sus 
picious,  and  then  she  was  scared.  And  then,  bit  by 
bit,  the  stiffness  melted  out  of  her,  her  arms  came 
up  about  me,  and  there  I  was,  lying  all  comfy,  with 


16 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

tlic  diamonds  on  her  neck  boring  rosettes  in  my 
cheeks,  and  she  a-sniffling  over  me  and  patting  me 
and  telling  me  not  to  get  excited,  that  it  was  all 
right,  and  now  I  was  home  mummy  would  take  care 
of  me,  she  would,  that  she  would. 

She  did.  She  got  me  on  to  a  lounge,  soft  as — as 
marshmallows,  and  she  piled  one  silk  pillow  after 
another  behind  my  back. 

"Come,  dear,  let  me  help  you  off  with  your  coat," 
she  cooed,  bending  over  me. 

"Oh,  mummy,  it's  so  cold!  Can't  I  please  keep 
it  on?" 

To  let  that  coat  off  me  was  to  give  the  whole 
thing  away.  My  rig  underneath,  though  good 
enough  for  your  girl,  Tom,  on  a  holiday,  wasn't 
just  what  they  wear  in  the  Square.  And,  d'ye  know, 
you'll  say  it's  silly,  but  I  had  a  conviction  that  with 
that  coat  I  should  say  good-by  to  the  nerve  .I'd  had 
since  I  got  into  the  Bishop's  carriage, — and  from 
there  into  society.  I  let  her  take  the  hat.  though, 
and  I  could  see  by  the  way  she  handled  it  that  it 
was  all  right — the  thing;  her  kind,  you  know.  Oh, 
the  girl  I  got  it  from  had  good  taste,  all  right. 

I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  moment  as  I  lay  there  and 


17 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

she  stood  stroking  my  hair.  She  must  have  thought 
I'd  fallen  asleep,  foi  she  turned  to  the  Bishop,  and 
holding  out  her  hand,  she  said  softly : 

"My  dear,  dear  Bishop,  you  are  the  best-hearted, 
the  saintliest  man  on  earth.  Because  you  are  so 
beautifully  clean-souled  yourself,  you  must  pardon 
me.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  shall  have  no  rest 
till  I  do.  When  I  saw  you  in  the  carriage  down 
town,  with  that  poor,  demented  child,  I  thought,  for 
just  a  moment — oh,  can  you  forgive  me?  It  shows 
what  an  evil  mind  I  have.  But  you,  who  know  so 
well  what  Edward  is,  what  my  life  has  been  with 
him,  will  see  how  much  reason  I  have  to  be  sus 
picious  of  all  men!" 

I  shook,  I  laughed  so  hard.  What  a  corker  her 
Edward  must  be !  See,  Tom,  poor  old  Mrs.  Dow 
ager  up  in  the  Square  having  the  same  devil's  luck 
with  her  man  as  Molly  Elliott  down  in  the  Alley  has 
with  hers.  I  wonder  if  you're  all  alike.  No,  for 
there's  the  Bishop.  He  had  taken  her  hand  sympa- 
thizingly,  forgivingly,  but  his  silence  made  me  curi 
ous.  I  knew  he  wouldn't  let  the  old  lady  believe  for 
a  moment  I  was  luny,  if  once  he  could  be  sure  him 
self  that  I  wasn't.  You  lie,  Tom  Dorgan,  he 
wouldn't!  Well —  But  the  poor  baby,  how  could 
18 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

he  expect  to  see  through  a  game  that  had  caught 
the  Dowager  herself?  Still,  I  could  hear  him  walk 
ing  softly  toward  me,  and  I  felt  him  looking  keenly 
down  at  me  long  before  I  opened  my  eyes. 

When  I  did,  you  should  have  seen  him  jump. 
Guilty  he  felt.  I  could  see  the  blood  rush  up  undci 
his  clear,  thin  old  skin,  soft  as  a  baby's,  to  find 
himself  caught  trying  to  spy  out  my  secret. 

I  just  looked,  big-eyed,  up  at  him.  You  know; 
the  way  Molly's  kid  does,  when  he  wakes.  I  looked 
a  long,  long  time,  as  though  I  was  puzzled. 

"Daddy,"  I  said  slowly,  sitting  up.  "You— 
you  are  my  daddy,  ain't  you  ?" 

"Yes — yes,  of  course."  It  was  the  Dowager  who 
got  between  him  and  me,  hinting  heavily  at  him 
\\ith  nods  arid  frowns.  But  the  dear  old  fellow  only 
got  pinker  in  the  effort  to  look  a  lie  and  not  say  it. 
Still,  he  looked  relieved.  Evidently  he  thought  I 
was  luny  all  right,  but  that  I  had  lucid  intervals.  I 
heard  him  whisper  something  like  this  to  the  Dow- 
«ager  just  before  the  maid  came  in  with  tea  for  me. 

Yes,  Tom  Dorgan,  tea  for  Nancy  Olden  off  a  sil 
ver  salver,  out  of  a  cup  like  a  painted  eggshell.  My. 
but  that  almost  floored  me !     I  was  afraid  I'd  give 
myself  dead  away  with  all  those  little  jars  and  jugs 
19 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

So  I  said  I  wasn't  hungry,  though,  Lord  knows,  I 
hadn't  had  anything  to  eat  since  early  morning. 
But  the  Dowager  sent  the  maid  away  and  took  the 
tray  herself,  operating  all  the  jugs  and  pots  for  me, 
and  then  tried  to  feed  me  the  tea.  She  was  about  as 
handy  as  Molly's  little  sister  is  with  the  baby — but 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  coaxed,  and  drank  it  down. 

Tea,  Tom  Dorgan.  Ever  taste  tea?  If  you 
knew  how  to  behave  yourself  in  polite  society,  I'd 
give  you  a  card  to  my  friend,  the  Dowager,  up  in 
the  Square. 

How  to  get  away !  That  was  the  thing  that  wor 
ried  me.  I'd  just  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  lucid 
interval,  when  cr-creak,  the  front  door  opened,  and 
in  walked — 

Tom,  you're  mighty  cute — so  cute  you'll  land  us 
both  behind  bars  some  day — but  you  can't  guess 
who  came  in  on  our  little  family  party.  Yes — oh, 
yes,  you've  met  him. 

Well,  the  old  duffer  whose  watch  was  ticking  in 
side  my  waist  that  very  minute !  Yes,  sir,  the  same 
red-faced,  big-necked  fellow  we'd  spied  getting  full 
at  the  little  station  in  the  country.  Only,  he  was  a 
bit  mellower  than  when  you  grabbed  his  chain* 
Well,  he  was  Edward. 

20 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  almost  dropped  the  cup  when  I  saw  him.  The 
Dowager  took  it  from  me,  saying: 

"There,    dear,    don't    be    nervous.     It's    only- 
only—" 

She  got  lost.  It  couldn't  be  my  daddy — the 
Bishop  was  that.  But  it  was  her  husband,  so  who 
could  it  be  ? 

"Evening,  Bishop.  Hello,  Henrietta,  back  so 
soon  from  the  opera?"  roared  Edward,  in  a  big, 
husk}7  voice.  He'd  had  more  since  we  saw  him,  but 
he  walked  straight  as  the  Bishop  himself,  and  he's 
a  dear  little  ramrod.  "Ah!" — his  eyes  lit  up  at 
sight  of  me — "ah,  Miss — Miss — of  course,  I've 
met  the  young  lady,  Henrietta,  but  hang  me  if 
I  haven't  forgotten  her  name." 

"Miss — Miss  Murieson,"  lied  the  old  lady,  glibly. 
"A — a  relative." 

"Why,  mummy !"  I  said  reproachfully. 

"There— there.  It's  only  a  joke.  Isn't  it  a 
joke,  Edward?"  she  demanded,  laughing  uneasily. 

"Joke?"  he  repeated  with  a  hearty  bellow  of 
laughter.  "Best  kind  of  u  joke,  I  call  it,  to  find 
so  pretty  a  girl  right  in  your  own  house,  eli, 
Bishop?" 

"Why  does  he  call  my  father  'Bishop',  mummy  ?* 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  couldn't  help  It.  The  fun  of  hearing  the 
Dowager  lie  and  knowing  the  Bishop  beside  him 
self  with  the  pain  of  deception  was  too  much  for 
me.  I  could  see  she  didn't  dare  trust  her  Edward 
with  my  sad  story. 

"Ho!  ho!  The  Bishop — that's  good.  No,  my 
dear  Miss  Murieson,  if  this  lady's  your  mother, 
why,  I  must  be — at  least,  I  ought  to  be,  your  father. 
As  such,  I'm  going  to  have  all  the  privileges  of  a 
parent — bless*  me,  if  I'm  not." 

I  don't  suppose  he'd  have  done  it  if  he'd  been 
sober,  but  there's  no  telling,  when  you  remember  the 
reputation  the  Dowager  had  given  him.  But  he'd 
got  no  further  than  to  put  his  arm  around  me 
when  both  the  Bishop  and  the  Dowager  flew  to  the 
rescue.  My,  but  they  were  shocked!  I  couldn't 
help  wondering  what  they'd  have  done  if  Edward 
had  happened  to  see  the  Bishop  in  the  same  sort  of 
tableau  earlier  in  the  afternoon. 

But  I  got  a  lucid  interval  just  then,  and  dis 
tracted  their  attention.  I  stood  for  a  moment, 
my  head  bent  as  though  I  was  thinking  deeply. 

"I  think  I'll  go  now,"  I  said  at  length.  "I— I 
don't  understand  exactly  how  I  got  here,"  I  went 
o>n,  looking  from  the  Bishop  to  the  Dowager  and 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

back  again,  "or  how  I  happened  to  miss  my  father. 
I'm  ever — so  much  obliged  to  you,  and  if  you  will 
give  me  my  hat,  I'll  take  the  next  train  back  to 
college." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  Dowa 
ger,  promptly.  "My  dear,  you're  a  sweet  girl 
that's  been  studying  too  hard.  You  must  go  to 
my  room  and  rest — 

"And  stay  for  dinner.  Don't  you  care.  Some 
times  I  don't  know  how  I  get  here  myself."  Ed 
ward  winked  jovially. 

Well,  I  did.  While  the  Dowager's  back  was 
turned,  I  gave  him  the  littlest  one,  in  return  for 
his.  It  made  him  drunker  than  ever. 

"I  think,'"1  said  the  Bishop,  grimly,  with  a  sig 
nificant  glance  at  the  Dowager,  as  he  turned  just 
then  and  saw  the  old  cock  ogling  me,  "the  young 
lady  is  wiser  than  w<»  I'll  take  her  to  the  sta 
tion—" 

The  station!  Ugh!  Not  Nance  Olden,  with  the 
fed  coat  still  on. 

"Impossible,  my  -dear  Bishop,"  interrupted  the 
Dowager.  "She  cwi't  be  permitted  to  go  back  or 
the  train  alone." 

"Why,  Miss- —  Miss  Muricson,  I'll  see  you  back 
23 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

si!  the  way  to  the  college  door.  Not  at  all,  not  at 
all.  Charmed.  First,  we'll  have  dinner — or,  first 
I'll  telephone  out  there  and  tell  'em  you're  with  us, 
so  that  if  there's  any  rule  or  anything  of  that 
sort—" 

The  telephone!  This  wretched  Edward  with 
half  his  wits  gave  me  more  trouble  than  the  Bishop 
and  the  Dowager  put  together.  She  jumped  at  the 
idea,  and  left  the  room,  only  to  come  back  again 
to  whisper  to  me: 

"What  name,  my  dear?" 

"What  name?  what  name?"  I  repeated  blankly. 
What  name,  indeed.  I  wonder  how  "Nanca  Olden" 
would  have  done. 

"Don't  hurry,  dear,  don't  perplex  yourself,"  she 
whispered  anxiously,  noting  my  bewilderment. 
"There's  plenty  of  time,  and  it  makes  no  difference 
—not  a  particle,  really." 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  head. 

"I  can't  think — I  can't  think.  There's  one  girl 
has  nervous  prostration,  and  her  name's  got  mixed 
with  mine,  and  I  can't — 

"Hush,  hush!  Never  mind.  You  shall  come 
and  lie  down  in  my  room.  You'll  stay  with  us 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

to-night,  anyway,  and  we'll  have  a  doctor  in. 
Bishop." 

"That's  right,"  assented  the  Bishop.  "I'll  go 
•get  him  myself." 

"You — you're  not  going!"  I  cried  in  dismay. 
It  was  real.  I  hated  to  see  him  go. 

"Nonsense — 'phone."  It  was  Edward  who  went 
himself  to  telephone  for  the  doctor,  and  I  saw  my 
time  getting  short. 

But  the  Bishop  had  to  go,  anyway.  He  looked 
out  at  his  horses  shivering  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  the  sight  hurried  him. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  taking  my  hand,  "just  let 
Mrs.  Ramsay  take  care  of  you  to-night.  Don't 
bother  about  anything,  but  just  rest.  I'll  see  you 
in  the  morning,"  he  went  on,  noticing  that  I  kind 
of  clung  to  him.  Well,  I  did.  "Can't  you  re 
member  what  I  said  to  you  in  the  carriage — that 
I  wished  you  were  my  daughter.  I  wish  you  were, 
indeed  I  do,  and  that  I  could  take  you  home  with 
jine  and  keep  you,  child." 

"Then — to-night — if — when  you  pray — will  ycu 
pray  for  me  as  if  I  was — your  own  daughter?" 

Tom  Dorgan,  ycu  think  no  prayers  but  a  priest's 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

are  any  good,  you  bigoted,  snickering  Catholic! 
I  tell  you  if  some  day  I  cut  loose  from  you  and  start 
in  over  again,  it'll  be  the  Bishop's  prayers  that'll 
doit. 

The  Dowager  and  I  passed  Edward  in  the  hall. 
He  gave  me  a  look  behind  her  back,  and  I  gave 
him  one  to  match  it.  Just  practice,  you  know, 
Tom.  A  girl  can  never  know  when  she'll  want  to 
be  expert  in  these  things. 

She  made  me  lie  down  on  a  couch  while  she  turned 
the  lamp  low,  and  then  left  me  alone  in  a  big  palace 
of  a  bedroom  filled  with  things.  And  I  wanted 
everything  I  saw.  If  I  could,  I'd  have  lifted 
everything  in  sight. 

But  every  minute  brought  that  doctor  nearer. 
Soon  as  I  could  be  really  sure  she  was  gone,  I  got 
up,  and,  hurrying  to  the  long  French  windows  that 
opened  on  the  great  stone  piazza,  I  unfastened  them 
quietly,  and  inch  by  inch  I  pushed  them  open. 

There  within  ten  feet  of  me  stood  Edward.  No 
escape  that  way.  He  saw  me,  and  was  tiptoeing 
heavily  toward  me,  when  I  heard  the  door  click 
behind  me,  and  in  walked  the  Dowager  back  again. 

I  flew  to  her. 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  one  out  there,"  I  said- 
26 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"It  frightened  me  so  that  I  got  up  to  look.     No 
body  could  be  out  there,  could  they  ?" 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  put  her  head  out. 
Her  lips  tightened  grimly. 

"No,  nobody  could  be  out  there,"  she  said, 
breathing  hard,  "but  you  might  get  nervous  just 
thinking  there  might  be.  We'll  go  to  a  room 
upstairs." 

And  go  we  did,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  plead  about 
feeling  well  enough  now  to  go  alone  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  How  was  I  to  get  out  of  a  second  or  third- 
story  window? 

I  began  to  think  about  the  Correction  again  as 
I  followed  her  upstairs,  and  after  she'd  left  me 
I  just  sat  waiting  for  the  doctor  to  come  and  send 
me  there.  I  didn't  much  care,  till  I  remembered 
the  Bishop.  I  could  almost  see  his  face  as  it  would 
look  when  he'd  be  called  to  testify  against  me,  and 
I'd  be  standing  in  that  railed-in  prisoner's  pen,  in 
the  middle  of  the  court-room,  where  Dan  Christen- 
sen  stood  when  they  tried  him. 

No,  I  couldn't  bear  that;  not  without  a  fight, 
anyway.     It  was  for  the  Bishop  I'd  got  into  this 
part   of  the   scrape.      I'd   get   out   of  it   so's  he 
shouldn't  know  how  bad  a  thing  a  girl  can  be. 
27 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

While  I  lay  thinking  it  over,  the  same  maid  that 
had  brought  me  the  tea  came  in.  She  was  an  ugly, 
thin  little  thing.  If  she's  a  sample  of  the  maids 
-in  that  house,  the  lot  of  them  would  take  the  kinl\ 
out  of  your  pretty  hair,  Thomas  J.  Dorgan,  Es 
quire,  late  of  the  House  of  Refuge  and  soon  of 
Moyamensing.  Don't  throw  things.  People  IE 
my  set,  mine  and  the  Dowager's,  don't. 

She  had  been  sent  to  help  me  undress,  she  said, 
and  make  me  comfortable.  The  doctor  lived  just 
around  the  corner  and  would  be  in  in  a  minute. 

Phew !  She  wasn't  very  promising,  but  she  was 
my  only  chance.  I  took  her. 

"I  really  don't  need  any  help,  thank  you,  Nora," 
I  said,  chipper  as  a  sparrow,  and  remembering  the 
name  the  Dowager  had  called  her  by.  "Aunt  Hen^ 
rietta  is  too  fussy,  don't  you  think  ?  Oh,  of  course^ 
you  won't  say  a  word  against  her.  She  told  me 
the  other  day  that  she'd  never  had  a  maid  so  sensi 
ble  and  quick-witted,  too,  as  her  Nora.  Do  you 
know,  I've  a  mind  to  play  a  joke  on  the  doctor 
when  he  comes.  You'll  help  me,  won't  you?  Oh, 
I  know  you  will!"  Suddenly  I  remembered  the 
Bishop's  bill.  I  took  it  out  of  my  pocket.  Yep, 
Tom,  that's  where  it  went.  I  had  to  choose  between 
28 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

giving  that  skinny  maid  the  biggest  tip  she  ever 
got  in  her  life — or  Nance  Olden  to  the  Correction. 

You  needn't  swear,  Tom  Dorgan.  I  fancy  if 
I'd  got  there,  you'd  got  worse.  No,  you  bully,  you 
know  I  wouldn't  tell;  but  the  police  sort  of  know 
how  to  pair  our  kind. 

In  her  cap  and  apron,  I  let  the  doctor  in  and 
myself  out.  And  I  don't  regret  a  thing  up  there 
in  the  Square  except  that  lovely  red  coat  with  the 
high  collar  and  the  hat  with  the  fur  on  it.  I'd 
give —  Tom,  get  me  a  coat  like  that  and  I'll 
marry  you  for  life. 

No,  there's  one  thing  I  could  do  better  if  it  was 
to  be  done  over  again.  I  could  make  that  dear 
little  old  Bishop  wish  harder  I'd  been  his  daughter. 

What  am  I  mooning  about?  Oh — nothing. 
There's  the  watch — Edward's  watch.  Take  it 


ft 


Yes,  empty-handed,  Tom  Dorgan.  And  I  can't 
honestly  say  I  didn't  have  the  chance,  but — if  my 
hands  are  empty  my  head  is  full. 

Listen. 

There's  a  girl  I  know  with  short  brown  hair, 
a  turned-up  nose  and  gray  eyes,  rather  far  apart. 
You  know  her,  too?  Well,  she  can't  help  that. 

But  this  girl — oh,  she  makes  such  a  pretty  boy ! 
And  the  ladies  at  the  hotel  over  in  Brooklyn,  they 
just  dote  on  her  when  she's  not  only  a  boy  but  a 
bell-boy.  Her  name  may  be  Nancy  when  she's 
in  petticoats,  but  in  trousers  she's  Nathaniel — in 
short,  Nat. 

Now,  Nat,  in  blue  and  buttons,  with  his  nails 
kept  better  than  most  boys',  with  his  curly  hair 
parted  in  the  middle,  and  with  a  gentle  tang  to  his 
voice  that  makes  him  almost  girlish — who  would 
suspect  Nat  of  having  a  stolen  pass-key  in  his 
pocket  and  a  pretty  fair  knowledge  of  the  contents 
of  almost  every  top  bureau-drawer  in  the  hotel? 
30 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Not  Mrs.  Sarah  Kingdon,  a  widow  just  arrived 
from  Philadelphia,  and  desperately  gone  on  young 
Mr.  George  Moriway,  also  fresh  from  Philadel 
phia,  and  desperately  gone  on  Mrs.  Kingdon's — 
money. 

The  tips  that  lady  gave  the  bad  boy  Nat!  I 
knew  I  couldn't  make  you  believe  it  any  other  way ; 
that's  why  I  passed  'em  on  to  you,  Tommy-boy. 

The  hotel  woman,  you  know,  girls,  is  a  hotel 
woman  because  she  isn't  fit  to  be  anything  else. 
She's  lazy  and  selfish  and  little,  and  she's  shifted 
all  her  legitimate  cares  on  to  the  proprietor's  shoul 
ders.  She  actually — you  can  understand  and 
share  my  indignation,  can't  }rou,  Tom,  as  you've 
shared  other  things  ? — she  even  gives  over  her  black 
tin  box  full  of  valuables  to  the  hotel  clerk  to  put 
in  the  safe;  the  coward!  But  her  vanity — ah, 
there's  where  we  get  her,  such  speculators  as  you 
and  myself.  She's  got  to  outshine  the  woman  who 
sits  at  the  next  table,  and  so  she  borrows  her  dia 
monds  from  the  clerk,  wears  'em  like  the  peacock 
she  is,  and  trembles  till  they're  back  in  the  safe 
again. 

In  the  meantime  she  locks  them  up  in  the  tin 
box   which   she   puts    in   her   top    bureau-drawer, 
31 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

hides  the  key,  forgets  where  she  hid  it,  and — 0 
Tom !  after  searching  for  it  for  hours  and  making 
herself  sick  with  anxiety,  she  ties  up  her  head  in  a 
'Wet  handkerchief  with  vinegar  on  it  and — rings 
the  bell  for  the  bell-boy! 

He  comes. 

As  I  said,  he's  a  prompt,  gentle  little  bell-boy, 
slight,  looks  rather  young  for  his  job,  but  that  very 
youth  and  innocence  of  his  make  him  such  a  fellow 
to  trust ! 

"Nat,"  says  Mrs.  Kingdon,  tearfully  pressing 
half  a  dollar  into  the  nice  lad's  hand,  "I — I've  lost 
something  and  I  want  you  to — to  help  me  find  it." 

"Yes'm,"  says  Nat.     He's  the  soul  of  politeness. 

"It  must  be  here — it  must  be  in  this  room,"  says 
the  lady,  getting  wild  with  the  terror  of  losing. 
"I'm  sure — positive — that  I  went  straight  to  the 
shoe-bag  and  slipped  it  in  there.  And  now  I 
can't  find  it,  and  I  must  have  it  before  I  go  out  this 
afternoon  for — for  a  very  special  reason.  My 
daughter  Evelyn  will  be  home  to-morrow  and — 
why  don't  you  look  for  it?" 

"What  is  it,  ma'am?" 

"I  told  you  once.  My  key— a  little  flat  key  tha.i 
locks-  &  box  I've  got,"  she  finishes  distrustfully 


IIS    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Have  you  looked  in  the  shoe-bag,  ma'am?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  have,  you  little  stupid.  I 
want  you  to  hunt  other  places  where  I  can't  easily 
get.  There  are  other  places  I  might  have  put  it, 
but  I'm  positive  it  was  in  the  shoe-bag." 

Well,  I  looked  for  that  key.  Where?  Where 
not  ?  I  looked  under  the  rubbish  in  the  waste-paper 
basket;  Mrs.  Kingdon  often  fooled  thieves  by 
dropping  it  there.  I  pulled  up  the  corner  of 
the  carpet  and  looked  there — it  was  loose;  it  had 
often  been  used  for  a  hiding-place.  I  looked  in 
Miss  Evelyn's  boot  and  in  her  ribbon  box.  I  emp 
tied  Mrs.  Kingdon's  full  powder  box.  I  climbed 
ladders  and  felt  along  cornices.  I  looked  through 
the  pockets  of  Mrs.  Kingdon's  gowns — a  clever 
bell-boy  it  takes  to  find  a  woman's  pocket,  but  even 
the  real  masculine  ones  among  'em  are  half  femi 
nine  ;  they've  had  so  much  to  do  with  women. 

I  rummaged  through  her  writing-desk,  and,  in 
searching  a  gold-cornered  pad,  found  a  note  from 
Moriway  hidden  under  the  corner.  I  hid  it  again 
carefully — in  my  coat  pocket.  A  love-letter  from 
Mori  way,  to  a  woman  twenty  years  older  than 
himself — 'tain't  a  bad  lay,  Tom  Dorgan,  but  you 
needn't  try  it, 

33 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

At  first  she  watched  every  move  I  made,  but 
later,  as  her  headache  grew  worse,  she  got  desper 
ate.  So  then  I  put  my  hand  down  into  the  shoe-bag 
and  found  the  key,  where  it  had  slipped  under  a 
fold  of  cloth. 

Do  you  suppose  that  woman  was  grateful?  She 
snatched  it  from  me. 

"I  knew  it  was  there.  I  told  you  it  was  there. 
If  you'd  had  any  sense  you'd  have  looked  there 
first.  The  boys  in  this  hotel  are  so  stupid." 

"That's  all,  ma'am?" 

She  nodded.  She  was  fitting  the  key  into  the 
black  box  she'd  taken  from  the  top  drawer.  Nat 
had  got  to  the  outside  door  when  he  heard  her 
come  shrieking  after  him. 

"Nat — Nat — come  back!  My  diamonds — 
they're  not  here.  I  know  I  put  them  back  last 
night — I'm  positive.  I  could  swear  to  it.  I  can 
see  myself  putting  them  in  the  chamois  bag,  and 
— O  my  God,  where  can  they  be!  This  time 
Jhey're  gone!" 

Nat  could  have  told  her — but  what's  the  use? 
He  felt  she'd  only  lose  'em  again  if  she  had  'em* 
So  he  let  them  lie  snug  in  his  trousers  pocket — 
where  he  had  put  the  chamois  bag,  when  his 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

lit  on  it,  under  the  corner  of  the  carpet.  He  might 
have  passed  it  over  to  her  then,  but  you  see,  Tom, 
she  hadn't  told  him  to  look  for  a  bag ;  it  was  a  key 
she  wanted.  Bell-boys  are  so  stupid. 

This  time  she  followed  his  every  step.  He  could 
not  put  his  hand  on  the  smallest  thing  without 
rousing  her  suspicion.  If  he  hesitated,  she  scolded. 
If  he  hurried,  she  fumed.  Most  unjust,  I  call  it, 
because  he  had  no  thought  of  stealing — just  then. 

"Come,"  she  said  at  last,  "we'll  go  down  and 
report  it  at  the  desk." 

"Hadn't  I  better  wait  here,  ma'am,  and  look 
again  ?" 

She  looked  sharply  at  him. 

"No;  you'd  better  do  just  as  I  tell  you." 

So  down  we  went.  And  we  met  Mr.  Moriway 
there.  She'd  telephoned  him.  The  chambermaid 
was  called,  the  housekeeper,  the  electrical  engineer 
who'd  been  fixing  bells  that  morning,  and,  as  I  saids 
a  bell-boy  named  Nat,  who  told  how  he'd  just  come 
on  duty  when  Mrs.  Kingdon's  bell  rang,  found  her 
key  and  returned  it  to  her,  and  was  out  of  the  room 
when  she  unlocked  the  box.  That  was  all  he  knew 

"Is  he  telling  the  truth?"  Moriway  asked  Mrs 
Kingdon. 

35 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Ye — es,  I  guess  he  is;  but  where  are  the  dia« 
mends?  We  must  have  them — you  know — to-day, 
George,"  she  whispered.  And  then  she  turned  and 
went  upstairs,  leaving  Moriway  to  do  the  rest. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,  Major,"  he  said 
to  the  proprietor.  "Search  'em  all  and  then — " 

"Search  me?  It's  an  outrage!"  cried  the  house 
keeper. 

"Search  me  if  ye  loike,"  growled  McCarthy,  re 
sentfully.  "Oi  wasn't  there  but  a  minute ;  the  lady 
herself  can  tell  ye  that." 

Katie,  the  chambermaid,  flushed  painfully,  and 
there  were  indignant  tears  in  her  eyes,  which,  I'll 
tell  you  in  confidence,  made  a  girl  named  Nancy 
uncomfortable. 

But  the  boy  Nat,  knowing  that  bell-boys  have 
no  rights,  said  nothing.  But  he  thought.  He 
thought,  Tom  Dorgan,  a  lot  of  things  and  a  long 
way  ahead. 

The  peppery  old  Major  marched  us  all  off  to 
his  private  office. 

Not  much,  girls,  it  hadn't  come.  For  suddenly 
the  annunciator  rang  out. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Nat  looked  at  the 
bell-boy's  bench.  It  was  empty.  There  was  to  be 
36 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

a  ball  that  night,  and  the  bells  were  going  it  over 
all  the  place. 

"Number  Twenty -one !"  shouted  the  clerk  at  the 
desk. 

But  Number  Twenty-one  didn't  budge.  His 
heart  was  beating  like  a  hammer,  and  the  ting — ng 
— ng  of  that  bell  calling  him  rang  in  his  head  like 
a  song. 

"Number  Twenty-one !"  yelled  the  clerk. 

Oh,  he's  got  a  devil  of  a  temper,  has  that  clerk. 
Some  day,  Tom,  when  you  love  me  very  much,  go 
up  to  the  hotel  and  break  his  face  for  n*e. 

"You! — boy — confound  you,  can't  you  hear?" 
he  shouted. 

That  time  he  caught  the  Major's  ear — the  one 
that  wasn't  deaf.  He  looked  from  Powers'  black 
face  to  the  bench  and  then  to  me.  And  all  the 
time  the  bell  kept  ringing  like  mad. 

"Git !"  he  said  to  the  boy.  "And  come  back  in 
a  hurry." 

Number  Twenty-one  got — but  leisurely.  It 
wouldn't  do  for  a  bell-boy  to  hurry,  particularly 
when  he  had  such  good  cause. 

Oh,  girls,  those  stone  stairs,  the  servants'  stairs 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

at  the  St.  James!  They're  fierce.  I  tell  you, 
Mag,  scrubbing  the  floors  at  the  Cruelty  ain't  so 
bad.  But  this  time  I  was  jolly  glad  bell-boys 
weren't  allowed  in  the  elevator.  For  there  were 
those  diamonds  in  my  pants  pocket,  and  I  must  get 
rid  of  'em  before  I  got  down  to  the  office  again. 
So  I  climbed  those  stairs,  and  every  step  I  took 
my  eye  was  searching  for  a  hiding-place.  I  could 
have  pitched  the  little  bag  out  of  a  window,  but 
Nancy  Olden  wasn't  throwing  diamonds  to  the 
birds,  any  more  than  Mag  here  is  likely  to  cut  off 
the  braids  of  red  hair  we  used  to  play  horse  with 
when  we  drove  her  about  the  Cruelty  yard. 

One  flight. 

No  chance. 

Another. 

Everything  bare  as  stone  and  soap  could  keep  it. 

The  third  flight — my  knees  began  to  tremble, 
and  not  with  climbing.  The  call  came  from  this 
'floor.  But  I  ran  up  a  fourth  just  on  the  chance, 
and  there  in  a  corner  was  a  fire  hatchet  strapped  to 
the  wall.  Behind  that  hatchet  Mrs.  Kingdon's  dia 
monds  might  lie  snug  till  evening.  I  put  the 
2nds  of  my  fingers  first  in  the  little  crack  to  make 


IN    THE    BISHOl-S    CARRIAGE 

sure  the  little  bag  wouldn't  drop  to  the  floor,  and 
then  dived  into  my  pocket  and — 

And  there  behind  me,  stealthily  coming  up  the 
last  turn  of  the  stairs  was  Mr.  George  Moriway ! 

Don't  you  hate  a  soft-walking  man,  Mag?  That 
cute  fellow  was  cuter  than  the  old  Major  himself, 
and  had  followed  me  every  inch  of  the  way. 

"There's  something  loose  with  this  hatchet,  sir," 
I  said,  innocently  looking  down  at  him. 

"Oh,  there  is?  What  an  observing  little  fellow 
you  are!  Never  mind  the  hatchet;  just  tell  me 
what  number  you  were  sent  to  answer." 

"Number?"  I  repeated,  as  though  I  couldn't  see 
why  he  wanted  to  know.  "Why— 431." 

"Not  much,  my  boy— 331." 

"  'Scuse  me,  sir,  ain't  }rou  mistaken?" 

He  looked  at  me  for  full  a  minute.  I  stared 
him  straight  in  the  eye.  A  nasty  eye  he's  got — 
black  and  bloodshot  and  cold  and  full  of  suspicion. 

But  it  wavered  a  bit  at  the  end. 

,  « 

"I  may  be,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  not  about  the 
dumber.  Just  you  turn  around  and  get  down  to 
331." 

"All   right,   sir.     Tliank   3*ou   very    much.     It 


39 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

might  have  got  me  in  trouble.  The  ladies  are  so 
particular  about  having  the  bells  answered 
quick — " 

"I  guess  you'll  get  in  trouble  all  right,"  he  said 
and  stood  watching — from  where  he  stood  he  could 
watch  me  every  inch  of  the  way — till  I  got  to  331, 
at  the  end  of  the  hall,  Mrs.  Kingdon's  door. 

And  the  goods  still  on  me,  Tom,  mind  that. 

My ,  but  Mrs.  Kingdon  was  wrathy  when  she  saw 
me! 

"Why  did  they  send  you?"  she  cried.  "Why 
did  you  keep  me  waiting  so  long?  I  want  a  cham 
bermaid.  I've  rung  a  dozen  times.  The  whole 
place  is  crazy  about  that  old  ball  to-night,  and  no 
one  can  get  decent  attention." 

"Can't  I  do  what  you  want,  ma'am?"  I  just 
yearned  to  get  inside  that  door. 

"No,"  she  snapped.  "I  don't  want  a  boy  to 
fasten  my  dress  in  the  back—" 

"We  often  do,  ma'am,"  I  said  softly. 

"You  do?     Well—" 

"Yes'm."  I  breathed  again. 

"Well — it's  indecent.  Go  down  and  send  me  a 
maid." 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

She  was  just  closing  the  door  in  my  face — and 
Moriway  waiting  for  me  to  watch  me  down  again. 

"Mrs.  Kingdon— " 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  that  when  I  get  down  to  the 
office  they'll  search  me." 

She  looked  at  me  amazed. 

"And — and  there's  something  in  my  pocket  I — 
you  wouldn't  like  them  to  find." 

"What  in  the  world — my  diamonds!  You  did 
take  them,  you  little  wretch?" 

She  caught  hold  of  my  coat.  But  Lordy!  I 
didn't  want  to  get  away  a  little  bit.  I  let  her  pull 
me  in,  and  then  I  backed  up  against  the  door  and 
shut  it. 

"Diamonds!  Oh,  no,  ma'am.  I  hope  I'm  not  a 
thief.  But — but  it  was  something  you  dropped — 
this." 

I  fished  Moriway's  letter  out  of  my  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

The  poor  old  lady !  Being  a  bell-boy  you  know 
just  how  old  ladies  really  are.  This  one  at  eve 
ning,  after  her  face  had  been  massaged  for  an 
hour,  and  the  manicure  girl  and  the  hair-dresser 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

had  gone,  wasn't  so  bad.  But  to-day,  with  the 
marks  of  the  morning's  tears  on  her  agitated  face, 
with  the  blood  pounding  up  to  her  temples  where 
the  hair  was  thin  and  gray — Tom  D organ,  if 
I'm  a  vain  old  fool  like  that  when  I'm  three  times 
as  old  as  I  am,  just  tie  a  stone  around  my  neck  and 
take  me  down  and  drop  me  into  the  nearest  water, 
won't  you? 

"You  abominable  little  wretch!"  she  sobbed. 
"I  suppose  you've  told  everybody  in  the  office." 

"How  could  I,  ma'am?" 

"How  could  you?"  She  looked  up,  the  tears 
on  her  flabby,  flushed  cheek. 

"I  didn't  know  myself.     I  can't  read  writing — " 

It  was  thin,  but  she  wanted  to  believe  it. 

She  could  have  taken  me  in  her  arms,  she  was  so 
happy. 

"There!  there!"  she  patted  my  shoulder  and 
gave  me  a  dollar  bill.  "I  was  a  bit  hasty,  Nat. 
It's  only  a — a  little  business  matter  that  Mr.  Mori- 
way's  attending  to  for  me.  We — we'll  finish  it  up 
this  afternoon.  I  shouldn't  like  Miss  Kingdon  to 
know  of  it,  because — because  I — never  like  to  worry 
her  about  business,  you  know.  So  don't  mention  it 
when  she  comes  to-morrow." 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"No'm.  Shall  I  fasten  your  dress?"  I  simply 
had  to  stay  in  that  room  till  I  could  get  rid  of 
those  diamonds. 

With  a  faded  old  blush — the  nicest  thing  about 
her  I'd  ever  seen — she  turned  her  back. 

"It's  dark  to-day,  ma'am,"  I  coaxed.  "Would 
you  mind  coming  nearer  the  window?" 

No,  she  wouldn't  mind.  She  backed  up  to  the 
corner  like  a  gentle  little  lamb.  While  I  hooked 
with  one  hand,  I  dropped  the  little  bag  where  the 
carpet  was  still  turned  up,  and  with  the  toe  of  my 
shoe  spread  it  flat  again. 

"You're  real  handy  for  a  boy,"  she  said,  pleased. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  I  answered,  pleased  my 
self. 

Moriway  was  still  watching  me,  of  course,  when 
I  came  out,  but  I  ran  downstairs,  he  following  close, 
and  when  the  Major  got  hold  of  me,  I  pulled  my 
pockets  inside  out  like  a  little  man. 

Moriway  was  there  at  the  time.  I  knew  he 
wasn't  convinced.  But  he  couldn't  watch  a  bell 
boy  all  day  long,  and  the  moment  I  was  sure  his 
eyes  were  off  me  I  was  ready  to  get  those  diamonds 
back  again. 

But  not  a  call  came  all  that  afternoon  from  the 
43 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

west  side  of  the  house,  except  the  call  of  those 
pretty,  precious  things  snug  under  the  carpet  call 
ing,  calling  to  me  to  come  and  get  them  and  drop 
bell-boying  for  good. 

At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  There's 
only  one  thing  to  do  when  your  chance  won't  come 
to  you ;  that  is,  to  go  to  it.  At  about  four  o'clock 
I  lit  out,  climbed  to  the  second  story  and  there — 
Mag,  I  always  was  the  luckiest  girl  at  the  Cruelty, 
wasn't  I?  Well,  there  was  suite  231  all  torn  up, 
plumbers  and  painters  in  there,  and  nothing  in  the 
world  to  prevent  a  boy's  skinning  through  when 
no  one  was  watching,  out  of  the  window  and  up  the 
fire-escape. 

Just  outside  of  Mrs.  Kingdon's  window  I  lay 
still  a  minute.  I  had  seen  her  and  Moriway  go 
out  together — she  all  gay  with  finery,  he  carry 
ing  her  bag.  The  lace  curtains  in  331  were  blow 
ing  in  the  breeze.  Cautiously  I  parted  them  and 
looked  in.  Everything  was  lovely.  From  where 
I  lay  I  reached  down  and  turned  back  the  flap  of 
the  carpet.  It  was  too  easy.  Those  darling  dia 
monds  seemed  just  to  leap  up  into  my  hand.  In 
a  moment  I  had  them  tucked  away  in  my  pants 
pocket.  Then  down  the  fire-escape  and  out  through 
44 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

231,  where  I  told  the  painter  I'd  been  to  get  a  toy 
the  boy  in  441  had  dropped  out  of  the  window. 

But  he  paid  no  attention  to  me.  No  one  did, 
though  I  felt  those  diamonds  shining  like  an  X-ray 
through  my  very  body.  I  got  downstairs  and 
was  actually  outside  the  door,  almost  in  the  street 
and  off  to  you,  when  a  girl  called  me. 

"Here,  boy,  carry  this  case,"  she  said. 

Do  you  know  who  it  was?  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  a 
dear  old  friend  of  mine  from  Philadelphia,  a  young 
lady  whose  taste — well,  all  right,  I'll  tell  you: 
it  was  the  girl  with  the  red  coat,  and  the  hat  with 
the  chinchilla  fur. 

How  did  they  look  ?  Oh,  fairly  well  on  a  blonde ! 
But  to  my  taste  the  last  girl  I'd  seen  in  the  coat  and 
hat  was  handsomer. 

Well,  I  carried  her  suit-case  and  followed  her 
back  into  the  hotel.  I  didn't  want  to  a  bit,  though 
that  coat  still — wonder  how  she  got  it  back ! 

She  sailed  up  the  hall  and  into  the  elevator,  and 
'  had  to  follow.  We  got  off  at  the  third  story, 
j'.irJ  she  brought  me  right  to  the  door  of  331.  And 
then  I  knew  this  must  be  Evelyn. 

"Mrs.  Kingdon's  out,  Miss.  She  didn't  expect 
you  till  to-morrow." 

45 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Did  she  tell  you  that?  Too  bad  she  isn't  at 
home !  She  said  she'd  be  kept  busy  all  day  to-day 
with  a  business  matter,  and  that  I'd  better  not  get 
here  till  to-morrow.  But  I — " 

"Wanted  to  get  here  in  time  for  the  wedding?" 
I  suggested  softly. 

You  should  have  seen  her  jump. 

"Wedding!    Not—" 

"Mrs.  Kingdon  and  Mr.  Moriway." 

She  turned  white. 

"Has  that  man  followed  her  here?  Quick,  tell 
me.  Has  she  actually  married  him?" 

"No — not  yet.  It's  for  five  o'clock  at  the  church 
on  the  corner." 

"How  do  you  know?"  She  turned  on  me,  sud 
denly  suspicious* 

"Well — I  do  know.  And  I'm  the  only  person 
in  the  house  that  does." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

She  took  out  her  key  and  opened  the  door,  and 
I  followed  her  in  with  the  suit-case.  But  before 
I  could  get  it  set  down  on  the  floor,  she  had  swooped 
on  a  letter  that  was  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  table, 
had  torn  it  open,  and  then  with  a  cry  had  come 
whirling  toward  me. 

46 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

"TVhere  is  this  church?  Come,  help  me  to  get 
to  it  before  five  and  I'll — oh,  you  shall  have  any 
thing  in  the  world  you  want !" 

She  flew  out  into  the  hall,  I  after  her.  And 
first  thing  you  know  we  were  down  in  the  street, 
around  the  corner,  and  there  in  front  of  the  church 
was  a  carriage  with  Moriway  just  helping  Mrs. 
Kingdon  out. 

"Mother!" 

At  that  cry  the  old  lady's  knees  seemed  to 
crumble  under  her.  Her  poor  old  painted  face 
looked  out  ghastly  and  ashamed  from  her  wedding 
finery.  But  Evelyn  in  her  red  coat  flew  to  her 
and  took  her  in  her  arms  as  though  she  was  a  child. 
And  like  a  child,  Mrs.  Kingdon  sobbed  and  made 
excuses  and  begged  to  be  forgiven. 

I  looked  at  Moriway.  It  was  all  the  pay  I 
wanted — particularly  as  I  had  those  little  dia 
monds. 

"You're  just  in  time,  Miss  Kingdon,"  he  said 
uneasily,  "to  make  your  mother  happy  by  your 
presence  at  her  wedding." 

"I'm  just  in  time,  Mr.  Moriway,  to  see  that  my 
mother's  not  made  unhappy  by  your  presence." 

"Evelyn!"     Mrs.  Kingdon  remonstrated. 
47 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Come,  Sarah."    Moriway  offered  his  arm, 

The  bride  shook  her  head. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said  feebly. 

Moriway  breathed  a  swear. 

Miss  Kingdon  laughed. 

"I've  come  to  take  care  of  you,  you  silly  little 
mother,  dear.  ...  It  won't  be  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Moriway." 

"No — not  to-morrow — next  week,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Kingdon. 

"In  fact,  mother's  changed  her  mind,  Mr.  Mori- 
way.  She  thinks  it  ungenerous  to  accept  such  a 
sacrifice  from  a  man  who  might  be  her  son — don't 
you,  mother?" 

"Well,  perhaps,  George — "  She  looked  up  from 
her  daughter's  shoulder — she  was  crying  all  over 
that  precious  red  coat  of  mine — and  her  eyes  lit 
on  me.  "Oh — you  wicked  boy,  you  told  a  lie!" 
she  gasped.  "You  did  read  my  letter." 

I  laughed;  laughed  out  loud,  it  was  such  a  bully 
thing  to  watch  Moriway's  face. 

But  that  was  an  unlucky  laugh  of  mine;  it 
turned  his  wrath  on  me.  He  made  a  dive  toward 
me.  I  ducked  and  ran.  Oh,  how  I  ran !  But  if 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

he  hadn't  slipped  on  the  curb  he'd  have  had  me.  As 
he  fell,  though,  he  let  out  a  yell. 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  Thief!  Thief! 
Thief!" 

May  yuu  never  hear  it,  Mag,  behind  you  when 
you've  somebody  else's  diamonds  in  your  pocket.  It 
sounds — it  sounds  the  way  the  bay  of  the  hounds 
must  sound  to  the  hare.  It  seems  to  fly  along  with 
the  air ;  at  the  same  time  to  be  behind  you,  at  your 
side,  even  in  front  of  you. 

I  heard  it  bellowed  in  a  dozen  different  voices, 
and  every  now  and  then  I  could  hear  Moriway  as 
I  pelted  on — that  brassy,  cruel  bellow  of  his  that 
made  my  heart  sick. 

And  then  all  at  once  I  heard  a  policeman's 
whistle. 

That  whistle  was  like  a  signal — I  saw  the  gates 
of  the  Correction  open  before  me.  I  saw  your 
Nance,  Tom,  in  a  neat  striped  dress,  and  she  was 
behind  bars — bars — bars !  There  were  bars  every 
where  before  me.  In  fact,  I  felt  them  against  my 
very  hands,  for  in  my  mad  race  I  had  shot  up  a 
blind  alley — a  street  that  ended  in  a  garden  behind 
an  iron  fence. 

I  grabbed  the  diamonds  to  throw  them  from  me, 
49 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

but  I  couldn't — I  just  couldn't!  I  jumped  the 
fence  where  the  gate  was  low,  and  with  that  whistle 
flying  shrill  and  shriller  after  me  I  ran  to  the  house. 

I  might  have  jumped  from  the  frying-pan? 
Of  course,  I  might.  But  it  was  all  fire  to  me. 
To  be  caught  at  the  end  is  at  least  no  worse  than 
to  be  caught  at  the  beginning.  Anyhow,  it  was 
my  one  chance,  and  I  took  it  as  unhesitatingly  as  a 
rat  takes  a  leap  into  a  trap  to  escape  a  terrier. 
Only — only,  it  was  my  luck  that  the  trap  wasn't 
set!  The  room  was  empty,  I  pushed  open  a  glass 
door,  and  fell  over  an  open  trunk  that  stood  be 
side  it. 

It  bruised  my  knee  and  tore  my  hand,  but  oh ! — 
it  was  nuts  to  me.  For  it  was  a  woman's  trunk 
filled  with  women's  things. 

A  skirt!  A  blessed  skirt!  And  not  a  striped 
one.  I  threw  off  the  bell-boy's  jacket  and  I  got 
into  that  dear  dress  so  quick  it  made  my  head  swim. 

The  jacket  was  a  bit  tight  but  I  didn't  button  it, 
and  I'd  just  got  a  stiff  little  hat  perched  on  my 
head  when  I  heard  the  tramp  of  men  on  the  side 
walk,  and  in  the  dusk  saw  the  cop's  buttons  at  the 
gate. 

Caught?  Not  much.  Not  yet.  I  threw  open 
the  glass  doors  and  walked  out  into  the  garden. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Miss — Omar —  I  wonder  if  it  would  be  Miss 
Omar?" 

You  bet  I  didn't  take  time  to  see  who  it  was 
talking  before  I  answered.  Of  course  I  was  Miss 
Omar.  I  was  Miss  Anybody  that  had  a  right  to 
wear  skirts  and  be  inside  those  blessed  gates. 

"Ah — h!  I  fancied  you  might  be.  I've  been 
expecting  you." 

It  was  a  lazy,  low  voice  with  a  laugh  in  it,  and 
it  came  from  a  wheeled  chair,  where  a  young  man 
lay.  Sallow  he  was  and  slim  and  long,  and  help 
less — you  could  see  that  by  his  white  hanging 
hands.  But  his  voice — it  was  what  a  woman's  voice 
would  be  if  she  were  a  man.  It  made  you  perk  up 
and  pretend  to  be  somewhere  near  its  level.  It  fitted 
his  soft,  black  clothes  and  his  fine,  clean  face.  It 
meant  silks  and  velvets  and — 

Oh,  all  right,  Tommy  Dorgan,  if  you're  going 
to  get  jealous  of  a  voice ! 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Latimer."  The  cop  came  in  af 
he  spoke,  Moriwuy  following;  the  rest  of  the 
hounds  hung  about.  "There's  a  thieving  bell-bo j 
from  the  hotel  that's  somewhere  in  your  grounds- 
Can  I  come  in  and  get  him?" 

"In  here,  Sergeant?     Aren't  you  mistaken?" 
51 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"No;  Mr.  Moriway  here  saw  him  jump  the  gate 
not  five  minutes  since." 

"Strange,  and  I  here  all  the  time!  I  may  have 
dozed  off,  though.  Certainly — certainly.  Look 
for  the  little  rascal.  What's  he  stolen?  Dia 
monds!  Tut!  tut!  Enterprising,  isn't  he?  .  .  . 
Miss  Omar,  won't  you  kindly  reach  the  bell  yonder 
— no,  on  the  table;  that's  it — and  ring  for  some 
one  to  take  the  officer  about?" 

I  rang. 

Do  you  know  what  happened?  An  electric  light 
strung  on  the  tree  above  the  table  shone  out,  and 
there  I  stood  under  it  with  Moriway's  eyes  full 
upon  me. 

"Great — !"  he  began. 

"Just  ring  again — "  Mr.  Latimer's  voice  came 
soft  as  silk. 

My  fingers  trembled  so,  the  bell  clattered  out 
of  them  and  fell  jangling  to  the  ground.  But  it 
rang.  And  the  light  above  me  went  out  like 
magic.  I  fell  back  into  a  garden  chair. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,   Mr. — was   Moriway  the 

name? — I  must  have  interrupted  you,  but  my  eyes 

are  troubling  me  this  evening,  and  I  can't  bear  the 

light.     Miss  Omar,  I  thought  the  housekeeper  had 

52 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

instructed  you:  one  ring  means  lights,  two  mean 
I  want  Burnett.  Here  he  comes.  .  .  Burnett,, 
take  Sergeant  Mulliill  through  the  place.  He's 
looking  for  a  thief.  You  will  accompany  tl:c 
Sergeant,  Mr. — Moriway  ?" 

"Thank  you — no.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  wait 
out  here." 

That  meant  me.     I  moved  toward  the  gate. 

"Not  at  all.  Have  a  seat.  Miss  Omar,  sit 
down,  won't  you?"  I  sat  down. 

"Miss  Omar  reads  to  me,  Mr.  Moriway.  I'm 
an  invalid,  as  you  see,  dependent  on  the  good  offices 
of  my  man.  I  find  a  woman's  voice  a  soothing 
change." 

"It  must  be.  Particularly  if  the  voice  is 
pleasing.  Miss  Omar — I  didn't  quite  catch  the 
name — " 

He  waited.  But  Miss  Omar  had  nothing  to 
say  that  minute. 

"Yes,  that's  the  name.  You've  got  it  all  right," 
said  Latimer.  "An  uncommon  name,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  it  before.  Do  you 
know,  Miss  Omar,  as  I  heard  your  voice  just  be 
fore  we  got  to  the  gate,  it  sounded  singularly  boy 
ish  to  me." 

53 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

"Mr.  Latimer  does  not  find  it  so — do  you?'*  I 
said  as  sweet — as  sweet  as  I  could  coax.  How 
sweet's  that,  Tom  Dorgan  ? 

"Not  at  all."  A  little  laugh  came  from  Latimer 
as  though  he  was  enjoying  a  joke  all  by  himself. 
But  Moriway  jumped  with  satisfaction.  He  knew 
the  voice  all  right. 

"Have  you  a  brother,  may  I  ask?"  He  leaned 
over  and  looked  keenly  at  me. 

"I  am  an  orphan,"  I  said  sadly,  "with  no  rela 
tives." 

"A  pitiful  position,"  sneered  Moriway.  "You 
look  so  much  like  a  boy  I  know  that — " 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  So  awfully  polite 
was  Latimer  to  such  a  rat  as  Moriway.  Why? 
Well,  wait.  "I  can't  agree  with  you.  Do  you 
know,  I  find  Miss  Omar  very  feminine.  Of  course, 
short  hair — " 

"Her  hair  is  short,  then !" 

"Typhoid,"  I  murmured. 

"Too  bad !"  Moriway  sneered. 

"Yes,"  I  snapped.     "I  thought  it  was  at  the 
time.     My  hair  was  very  heavy  and  long,  and  I 
had  a  chance  to  sit  in  a  window  at  Troyon's  where 
they  were  advertising  a  hair  tonic  and — " 
54 


IX    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Rotten?  Of  course  it  was.  I'd  no  business  to 
gabble,  and  just  because  you  and  your  new  job, 
Mag,  came  to  my  mind  at  that  minute,  there  I 
ivent  putting  my  foot  in  it. 

Moriway  laughed.  I  didn't  like  the  sound  of 
nis  laugh. 

"Your  reader  is  versatile,  Mr.  Latimer,"  he 
said. 

"Yes."  Latimor  smoothed  the  F  ,ft  silk  rug 
that  lay  over  him.  "Poverty  and  that  sort  of 
versatility  are  often  bedfellows,  eh?  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  Mr.  Moriway,  these  lost  diamonds  are  yours?" 

"No.  They  belong  to  a — a  friend  of  mine, 
Mrs.  Kingdon." 

"Oh!  the  old  lady  who  was  married  this  after 
noon  to  a  young  fortune-hunter!"  I  couldn't  re- 
sist  it. 

Moriway  jumped  out  of  his  seat. 

"She  was  not  married,"  he  stuttered.     "She — Jt 

"Changed  her  mind?  How  sensible  of  her; 
Did  she  find  out  what  a  crook  the  fellow  wasr 
What  was  his  name — Morrison?  No — Middlewaj 
— I  have  heard  it." 

"May  I  ask,  Miss  Omar" — I  didn't  have  to  $&• 
his  face;  his  voice  told  how  mad  with  rage  he  was— 
55 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Khow  you  come  to  be  acquainted  with  a  matter  that 
Dnly  the  contracting  parties  could  possibly  know 
of?" 

"Why,  they  can't  have  kept  it  very  secret,  the 
old  lady  and  the  young  rascal  who  was  after  her 
money,  for  you  see  we  both  knew  of  it ;  and  I  wasn't 
the  bride  and  you  certainly  weren't  the  groom, 
were  you?" 

An  exclamation  burst  from  him. 

"Mr.  Latimer,"  he  stormed,  "may  I  see  you  a 
moment  alone?" 

Phew !  That  meant  me.  But  I  got  up  just  the 
same. 

"Just  keep  your  seat,  Miss  Omar."  Oh,  that 
silken  voice  of  Latimer's!  "Mr.  Moriway,  I  have 
absolutely  no  acquaintance  with  you.  I  never  saw 
you  till  to-night.  I  can't  imagine  what  you  may 
have  to  say  to  me,  that  my  secretary — Miss  Omar 
acts  in  that  capacity — may  not  hear." 

"I  want  to  say,"  burst  from  Moriway,  "that  she 
looks  the  image  of  the  boy  Nat,  who  stole  Mrs. 
Kingdon's  diamonds,  that  the  voice  is  exactly  the 
same,  that — " 

"But  you  have  said  it,  Mr.  Moriway — quite  sue- 
^essfully  intimated  it,  I  assure  you." 
56 


IN   THE   BISHOPS   CARRIAGE 

"She  knows  of  my — of  Mrs.  Kingdon's  marriage, 
that  that  boy  Nat  found  out  about." 

"And  you  yourself  also,  as  Miss  Omar  men 
tioned." 

"Myself?  Damn  it,  I'm  Moriway,  the  man  she 
was  going  to  marry.  Why  shouldn't  I — " 

"Ah-h!"  Latimer's  shoulders  shook  with  a 
gentle  laugh.  "Well,  Mr.  Moriway,  gentlemen 
don't  swear  in  my  garden.  Particularly  when  ladies 
are  present.  Shall  we  say  good  evening?  Here 
comes  Mulhill  now.  .  .  .  Nothing,  Sergeant? 
Too  bad  the  rogue  escaped,  but  you'll  catch  him. 
They  may  get  away  from  you,  but  they  never  stay 
long,  do  they?  Good  evening — good  evening,  Mr. 
Moriway." 

They  tramped  on  and  out,  Moriway's  very  back 
showing  his  rage.  He  whispered  something  to  the 
Sergeant,  who  turned  to  look  at  me  but  shook  his 
head,  and  the  gate  clanged  after  them. 

A  long  sigh  escaped  me. 

"Warm,  isn't  it?"  Latimer  leaned  forward. 
"Now,  would  you  mind  ringing  again,  Miss 
Omar?" 

I  bent  and  groped  for  the  bell  and  rang  it  twice 


57 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

"How  quick  you  are  to  learn !"  he  said.  "But  I 
really  wanted  the  light  this  time.  .  .  .  Just 
light  up,  Burnett,"  he  called  to  the  man,  who  had 
come  out  on  the  porch. 

The  electric  bulb  flashed  out  again  just  over  my 
head.  Latimer  turned  and  looked  at  me.  When  I 
couldn't  bear  it  any  longer,  I  looked  defiantly  up 
at  him. 

"Pardon,"  he  said,  smiling ;  nice  teeth  he  has  and 
clear  eyes.  "I  was  just  looking  for  that  boyish  re 
semblance  Mr.  Moriway  spoke  of.  I  hold  to  my 
first  opinion — you're  very  feminine,  Miss  Omar. 
.  .  .  Will  you  read  to  me  now,  if  you  please  ?" 
He  pointed  to  a  big  open  book  on  the  table  beside 
his  couch. 

"I  think — if  you  don't  mind,  Mr.  Latimer,  I'll 
begin  the  reading  to-morrow."  I  got  up  to  go.  I 
was  through  with  that  garden  now. 

"But  I  do  mind!" 

Silken  voice  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  I  turned  on  him 
so  furious  I  thought  I  didn't  care  what  came  of  it — 
when  over  by  the  great  gate-post  I  saw  a  man 
crouching — Moriway. 

I  sat  down  again  and  pulled  the  book  farther 
toward  the  light. 

58 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

We  didn't  learn  much  poetry  at  the  Cruelty,  did 
*e,  Mag?  But  I  know  some  now,  just  the  same. 
When  I  began  to  read  I  heard  only  one  word — • 
Mori  way — Mori  way — Mori  way.  But  I  must  have 
forgotten  him  after  a  time,  and  the  dark  garden 
with  the  light  on  only  one  spot,  and  the  roses  smell 
ing,  and  Latimer  lying  perfectly  still,  his  face 
turned  toward  me,  for  I  was  reading — listen,  I  bet 
I  can  remember  that  part  of  it  if  I  say  it  slow— 

Oh,  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make, 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake: 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd — Man's  forgiveness  give — and  take! 

— when  all  at  once  Mr.  Latimer  put  his  hand  on  the 
book.  I  looked  up  with  a  start.  The  shadow  by  the 
gate  was  gone. 

Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again— 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 
How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain! 

Latimer  was  saying  it  without  the  book  and  with 
a  queer  smile  that  made  me  feel  I  hadn't  quite 
caught  on. 

59 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Thank  you,  that  will  do,"  he  went  on.    "That 
is  enough,  Miss — "    He  stopped. 

I  waited. 

He  did  not  say  "Omar." 

I  looked  him  square  in  the  eye — and  then  I  had 
enough. 

"But  what  in  the  devil  did  you  make  believe  for?" 
I  asked. 

He  smiled. 

"If  ever  you  come  to  lie  on  your  back  day  and 
night,  year  in  and  year  out,  and  know  that  never 
in  your  life  will  it  be  any  different,  you  may  take 
pleasure  in  a  bit  of  excitement  and — and  learn  to 
pity  the  under  dog,  who,  in  this  case,  happened  to 
be  a  boy  that  leaped  over  the  gate  as  though  his 
heart  was  in  his  mouth.  Just  as  you  would  admire 
the  nerve  of  the  young  lady  that  came  out  of  the 
house  a  few  minutes  after  in  your  housekeeper's 
Sunday  gown." 

Yes,  grin,  Tom  Dorgan.    You  won't  grin  long. 
I  put  down  the  book  and  got  up  to  go. 
"Good  night,  then,  and  thank  you,  Mr.  Lati- 
mer." 

"Good  night.     ...     Oh,  Miss—"  He  didn't 
say  "Omar" — "there  is  a  favor  you  might  do  me," 
60 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Sure !"    I  wondered  what  it  could  be. 

"Those  diamonds.  I've  got  to  have  them,  you 
know,  to  send  them  back  to  their  owner.  I  don't 
mind  helping  a — a  person  who  helps  himself  to 
other  people's  things,  but  I  can't  let  him  get  away 
with  his  plunder  without  being  that  kind  of  person 
myself.  So — 

Why  didn't  I  lie  ?  Because  there  are  some  people 
you  don't  lie  to,  Tom  Dorgan.  Don't  talk  to  me, 
you  bully,  I'm  savage  enough.  To  have  rings  and 
pins  and  ear-rings,  a  whole  bagful  of  diamonds, 
and  to  haul  'cm  out  of  your  pocket  and  lay  'em  on 
the  table  there  before  him ! 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  as  he  put  them  away 
in  his  own  pocket,  "what  a  man  like  rne  could  do  for 
a  girl  like  you  r" 

"Reform  her !"  I  snarled.  "Show  her  how  to  get 
diamonds  honestly." 

Say,  Tom,  let's  go  in  for  bigger  game. 


III. 


Oh,  Mag,  Mag,  for  heaven's  sake,  let  me  talk  to 
you !  No,  don't  say  anything.  You  must  let  me  tell 
you.  No — don't  call  the  other  girls.  I  can't  bear 
to  tell  this  to  anybody  but  you. 

You  know  how  I  kicked  when  Tom  hit  on  Lat- 
imer's  as  the  place  we  were  to  scuttle.  And  the 
harder  I  kicked  the  stubborner  he  got,  till  he  swore 
he'd  do  the  job  without  me  if  I  wouldn't  come  along. 
Well — this  is  the  rest  of  it. 

The  house,  you  know,  stands  at  the  end  of  the 
street.  If  you  could  walk  through  the  garden  with 
the  iron  fence  you'd  come  right  down  the  bluff  on 
to  the  docks  and  out  into  East  River.  Tom  and  I 
came  up  to  it  from  the  docks  last  night.  It  was 
dark  and  wet,  you  remember.  The  mud  was  thick 
'on  my  trousers — Nance  Olden's  a  boy  every  time 
when  it  comes  to  doing  business. 

"We'll  blow  it  all  in,  Tom,"  I  said,  as  we  climbed. 
"We'll  spend  a  week  at  the  Waldorf,  and  then,  Tom 
Dorgan,  we'll  go  to  Paris.  I  want  a  red  coat  and 
62 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

hat  with  chinchilla,  like  that  dear  one  I  lost,  and  a 
low-neck  satin  gown,  and  a  silk  petticoat  with  lace, 
and  a  chain  with  rhinestones,  and — " 

"Just  wait,  Sis,  till  you  get  out  of  this.  And 
keep  still." 

"I  can't.  I'm  so  fidgety  I  must  talk  or  I'll 
shriek." 

"Well,  you'll  shut  up  just  the  same.  Do  you 
hear  me?" 

I  shut  up,  but  my  teeth  chattered  so  that  Tom 
stopped  at  the  gate. 

"Look  here,  Nance,  are  you  going  to  flunk?  Say 
it  now — yes  or  no." 

That  made  me  mad. 

"Tom  Dorgan,"  I  said,  "I'll  bet  your  own  teeth 
chattered  the  first  time  you  went  in  for  a  thing  like 
this.  I'm  all  right.  You'll  squeal  before  I  do." 

"That's  more  like.  Here's  the  gate.  It's 
locked.  Come,  Nance." 

With  a  good,  strong  swing  he  boosted  me  over, 
handed  me  the  bag  of  tools  and  sprang  over  him 
self.  .  .  .  He  looked  kind  o'  handsome  and 
fine,  my  Tom,  as  he  lit  square  and  light  on  his  feet 
beside  me.  And  because  he  did,  I  put  ray  arm  in 
his  and  gave  it  a  squeeze. 
63 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  Mag,  it  was  so  funny,  going  through  Lat 
imer's  garden!  There  was  the  garden  table  where 
I  had  sat  reading  and  thinking  he  took  me  for  Mis? 
'Omar.  There  was  the  bench  where  that  beast  Mor- 
iway  sat  sneering  at  me.  The  wheeled  chair  was 
gone.  And  it  was  so  late  everything  looked  asleep. 
But  something  was  left  behind  that  made  me  think 
I  heard  Latimer's  slow,  silken  voice,  and  made  me 
feel  cheap — turned  inside  out  like  an  empty  pocket 
• — a  dirty,  ragged  pocket  with  a  seam  in  it. 

"You'll  stay  here,  Nancy,  and  watch,"  Tom 
whispered.  "You'll  whistle  once  if  a  cop  comes  in 
side  the  gate,  but  not  before  he's  inside  the  gate. 
Don't  whistle  too  soon — mind  that — nor  too  loud. 
I'll  hear  ye  all  right.  And  I'll  whistle  just  once  if 
- — anything  happens.  Then  you  run — hear  me? 
Run  like  the  devil—" 

"Tommy—" 

"Well,  what?" 

"Nothing — all  right."  I  wanted  to  say  good- 
by — but  you  know  Tom. 

Mag,  were  you  ever  where  you  oughtn't  tc  be  at 
midnight — alone?  No,  I  know  you  weren't.  'Twas 
your  ugly  little  face  and  your  hair  that  saved  you 
—•the  red  hair  we  used  to  guy  so  at  the  Cruelty.  I 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

can  see  you  now — a  freckle-faced,  thin  little  devil, 
with  J  he  tangled  hair  to  the  very  edge  of  your 
ragged  skirt,  yanked  in  that  first  day  to  the  Cruelty 
when  the  neighbors  complained  your  crying 
wouldn't  let  'em  sleep  nights.  The  old  woman  had 
just  locked  you  in  there,  hadn't  she,  to  starve  when 
she  lit  out.  Mothers  are  queer,  ain't  they,  when 
they  are  queer.  I  never  remember  mine. 

Yes,  I'll  go  on. 

I  stood  it  all  right  for  a  time,  out  there  alone  in 
the  night.  But  I  never  was  one  to  wait  patiently. 
I  can't  wait — it  isn't  in  me.  But  there  I  had  to 
stand  and  just — God! — just  wait. 

If  I  hadn't  waited  so  hard  at  the  very  first  I 
wouldn't  V  given  out  so  soon.  But  I  stood  so  still 
and  listened  so  terribly  hard  that  the  trees  began 
to  whisper  and  the  bushes  to  crack  and  creep.  I 
heard  things  in  my  head  and  ears  that  weren't 
sounding  anywhere  else.  And  all  of  a  sudden — 
tramp,  tramp,  tramp — I  heard  the  cop's  footsteps. 

He  stopped  over  there  by  the  swinging  electric 
light  above  the  gate.  I  crouched  down  behind  the 
iron  bench. 

And  my  coat  caught  a  twig  on  a  bush  and  iti 
crack — ck  was  like  a  yell. 
65 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  thought  I'd  die.  I  thought  I'd  scream.  I 
thought  I'd  run.  I  thought  I'd  faint.  But  I 
didn't — for  there,  asleep  on  a  rug  that  some  one 
had  forgotten  to  take  in,  was  the  house  cat.  I  gave 
her  a  quick  slap,  and  she  flew  out  and  across  the 
path  like  a  flash. 

The  cop  watched  her,  his  hand  on  the  gate,  and 
passed  on. 

Mag  Monahan,  if  Tom  had  come  out  that  min 
ute  without  a  bean  and  gone  home  with  me,  I'd  been 
so  relieved  I'd  never  have  tried  again.  But  he 
didn't  come.  Nothing  happened.  Nights  and 
nights  and  nights  went  by,  and  the  stillness  began 
to  sound  again.  My  throat  went  choking  mad.  I 
began  to  shiver,  and  I  reached  for  the  rug  the  cat 
had  lain  on. 

Funny,  how  some  things  strike  you!  This  was 
Latimer's  rug.  I  had  noticed  it  that  evening — a 
warm,  soft,  mottled  green  that  looked  like  silk  and 
fur  mixed.  I  could  see  the  way  his  long,  white 
hands  looked  on  it,  and  as  I  touched  it  1  could  heal 
Lie  voice — 

Oh,  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  inake, 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake: 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd — Man's  forgiveness  give — and  take! 

66 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Ever  hear  a  man  like  that  say  a  thing  like  that? 
No?  Well,  it's— it's  different.  It's  as  if  the  river 
had  spoken — or  a  tree — it's  so — it's  so  different. 

That  saved  me — that  verse  that  I  remembered.  I 
oaid  it  over  and  over  and  over  again  to  myself.  I 
fitted  it  to  the  ferry  whistles  on  the  bay — to  the 
cop's  steps  as  they  passed  again — to  the  roar  of  the 
L-train  and  the  jangling  of  the  surface  cars. 

And  right  in  the  middle  of  it — every  drop  of 
blood  in  my  body  seemed  to  leak  out  of  me,  and 
then  come  rushing  back  to  my  head — I  heard  Tom's 
whistle. 

Oh,  it's  easy  to  say  "run,"  and  I  really  meant  it 
when  I  promised  Tom.  But  you  see  I  hadn't  heard 
that  whistle  then.  When  it  came,  it  changed  every 
thing.  It  set  the  devil  in  me  loose.  I  felt  as  if  the 
world  was  tearing  something  of  mine  away  from 
me.  Stand  for  it?  Not  Nance  Olden. 

I  did  run — but  it  was  toward  the  house.  That 
whistle  may  have  meant  "Go!"  To  me  it  yelled 
"Come!" 

I  got  in  through  the  window  Tom  had  left  open. 
The  place  was  still  quiet.  Nobody  inside  had  heard 
that  whistle  so  far  as  I  could  tell. 

I  crept  along — the  carpets  were  thick  and  soft 
67 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

and  silky  as  the  nig  I'd  had  my  hands  buried  in  to 
keep  'em  warm. 

Along  a  long  hall  and  through  a  great  room, 
whose  walls  were  thick  with  books,  I  was  making  for 
a  light  I  could  see  at  the  back  of  the  house.  That's 
where  Tom  Dorgan  must  be  and  where  I  must  be  to 
find  out — to  know. 

With  my  hands  out  in  front  of  me  I  hurried,  buu 
softly,  and  just  as  I  had  reached  the  portieres  be 
low  which  the  light  streamed,  my  arms  closed  about 
a  thing — cold  as  marble,  naked — I  thought  it  was 
a  dead  body  upright  there,  and  with  a  cry,  I 
pitched  forward  through  the  curtains  into  the 
lighted  room. 

"Nance! — you  devil!" 

You  recognize  it?  Yep,  it  was  Tom.  Big  Tom 
Dorgan,  at  the  foot  of  Latimer's  bed,  his  hands 
above  his  head,  and  Latimer's  gun  aimed  right  at 
his  heart. 

Think  of  the  pluck  of  that  cripple,  will  you? 

His  eyes  turned  on  me  for  just  a  second,  and  then 
fixed  themselves  again  on  Tom.  But  his  voice  went 
straight  at  me,  all  right. 

"You  are  something  of  a  thankless  devil,  I  must 
admit,  Miss — Omar,"  he  said. 
68 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  didn't  say  anything.  You  don't  say  things  in 
answer  to  things  like  that.  You  feel  'em. 

Ashamed?  What  do  I  care  for  a  man  with  a 
voice  like  that!  .  .  .  But  you  should  have 
heard  how  Tom's  growl  sounded  after  it. 

"Why  the  hell  didn't  you  light  out?" 

"I  couldn't,  Tom.     I  just — couldn't,"  I  sobbed. 

"There  seems  invariably  to  be  a  misunderstand 
ing  of  signals  where  Miss  Omar  is  concerned.  Also 
a  dispositon  to  use  strong  language  in  the  lady's 
presence.  Don't  you,  young  man  !" 

"Don't  you  call  me  Miss  Omar !"  I  blazed,  stamp 
ing  my  foot. 

He  laughed  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

I  could  have  killed  him  then,  I  hated  him  so.  At 
least,  I  thought  I  could;  but  just  then  Tom  sent  a 
spark  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  to  me  that  meant 
— it  meant — 

You  know,  Mag,  what  it  would  have  meant  to 
Latimer  if  I  had  done  what  Tom's  eye  said. 

I  thought  at  first  I  had  done  it — it  passed 
through  my  mind  so  quick ;  the  sweet  words  I'd  say 
—the  move  I'd  make — the  quick  knock ing-up  of 
the  pistol,  and  then — 

It  was  that— that  sight  of  Tom,  big  Tom  Dor- 
69 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

gan,  with  rage  in  his  heart  and  death  in  his  hand, 
leaping  on  that  cripple's  body- — it  made  me  sick ! 

I  stood  there  gasping — stood  a  moment  too  long. 
For  the  curtains  were  pushed  aside,  and  Burnett,/ 
Latimer's  servant,  and  the  cop  came  in. 

Tom  didn't  fight ;  he's  no  fool  to  waste  himself. 

But  I — well,  never  mind  about  me.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  crazy  white  face  on  a  boy's  body  in 
the  great  glass  opposite  and  heard  my  own  voice 
break  into  something  I'd  never  heard  before. 

Tom  stood  at  last  with  the  handcuffs  on. 

"It's  your  own  fault,  you  damned  little  chump !" 
lie  said  to  me,  as  they  went  out. 

You  lie,  Mag  Monahan,  he's  no  such  thing !  He 
may  be  a  hard  man  to  live  with,  but  he's  mine — my 
Tom — my  Tom !  .  .  . 

What?    Latimer? 

Well,  do  you  know,  it's  funny  about  him.  He'd 
told  the  cop  that  I'd  peached — peached  on  Tom! 
So  they  went  off  without  me. 

Why? 

That's  what  he  said  himself  when  we  were  alone. 

"In  order  to  insure  for  myself  another  of  your 
most    interesting    visits,     I     suppose,    Miss — not 
Omar?   All   right.     .     .     .     Tell   me,   can   I   do 
70 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

nothing  for  you?    Aren't  you  sick  of  this  sort  of 
life?" 

"Get  Tom  out  of  jail." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  too  good  a  friend  of  yours  to  do  you  such 
a  turn." 

"I  don't  want  any  friend  that  isn't  Tom's." 

He  threw  the  pistol  from  him  and  pulled  himself 
up,  till  he  sat  looking  at  me. 

"In  heaven's  name,  what  can  you  see  in  a  fellow 
like  that?" 

"What's  that  to  you?"    I  turned  to  go. 

"To  me?  Things  of  that  sort  are  nothing,  of 
course,  to  me — me,  that  luckless  Pot  He  marr'd  in 
making.'  But,  tell  me — can  a  girl  like  you  tell  the 
truth?  What  made  you  hesitate  when  that  fellow 
told  you  with  his  eyes  to  murder  me  ?" 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"How?  The  glass.  See  over  yonder.  I  could 
watch  every  expression  on  both  your  faces.  What 
was  it — what  was  it,  child,  that  made  you —  oh,  if 
you  owe  me  a  single  heart-beat  of  gratitude,  tell  mf 
the  truth!" 

"You've  said  it  yourself ." 

"What?" 

71 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"That  line  we  read  the  other  night  about  'the 
luckless  Pot'." 

His  face  went  gray  and  he  fell  back  on  his  pil- 
iows.  The  strenuous  life  we'd  been  leading  him, 
Tom  and  I,  was  too  much  for  him,  I  guess. 

Do  you  know,  I  really  felt  sorry  I'd  said  it.  But 
he  is  a  cripple.  Did  he  expect  me  to  say  he  was  big 
and  strong  and  dashing — like  Tom? 

I  left  him  there  and  got  out  and  away.  But  do 
you  know  what  I  saw,  Mag,  beside  his  bed,  just  as 
Burnett  came  to  put  me  out? 

My  old  blue  coat  with  the  buttons — the  bell-boy's 
coat  I'd  left  in  the  housekeeper's  room  when  I  bor 
rowed  her  Sunday  rig.  The  coat  was  hanging  over 
a  chair,  and  right  by  it,  on  a  table,  was  that  big 
book  with  a  picture  covering  every  page,  still  open 
at  that  verse  about — 

Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vaiiU 


IV. 


No — no — no!  No  more  whining  from  Nance 
Olden.  Listen  to  what  I've  got  to  tell  you,  Mag, 
listen ! 

You  know  where  I  was  coming  from  yesterday 
when  I  passed  Troyon's  window  and  grinned  up  at 
you,  sitting  there,  framed  in  bottles  of  hair  tonic, 
with  all  that  red  wig  of  yours  streaming  about  you  ? 

Yep,  from  that  little,  rat-eyed  lawyer's  office.  I 
was  glum  as  mud.  I  felt  as  though  Tom  and  my 
self  were  both  flies  caught  by  the  leg — he  by  the  law 
and  I  by  the  lawyer — in  a  sticky  mess;  and  the 
more  we  flapped  our  wings  and  struggled  and 
pulled,  the  more  we  hurt  and  tore  ourselves,  and  the 
sooner  we'd  have  to  give  it  up. 

Oh,  that  wizen-faced  little  lawyer  that  lives  on 
the  Tom  Dorgans  and  the  Nance  Oldens,  who  don't 
know  which  way  to  turn  to  get  the  money !  He  looks 
at  me  out  of  his  red  little  eyes  and  measures  in  dol 
lars  what  I'd  do  for  Tom.  And  then  he  sets  his 
price  a  notch  higher  than  that. 
73 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

When  I  passed  the  big  department  store,  next  to 
Troyon's,  I  was  thinking  of  this,  and  I  turned  in 
there,  just  aching  for  some  of  the  boodle  that 
flaunts  itself  in  a  poor  girl's  face  when  she's  desper 
ate,  from  every  silk  and  satin  rag,  from  every  lace 
and  jewel  in  the  place. 

The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  I  didn't  want  it  for 
myself,  but  for  Tom.  'Pon  my  soul,  Mag,  though 
I  would  have  filled  my  arms  with  everything  I  saw, 
I  wouldn't  have  put  on  one  thing  of  all  the  duds ; 
just  hiked  off  to  soak  'em  and  pay  the  lawyer.  I 
might  have  been  as  old  and  ugly  and  rich  as  the 
yellow-skinned  woman  opposite  me,  who  was 
turning  over  laces  on  the  middle  counter,  for  all 
these  things  meant  to  me — with  Tom  in  jail. 

I  was  thinking  this  as  I  looked  at  her,  when  all  at 
once  I  saw —  v 

You  know  it  takes  a  pretty  quick  touch,  sharp 
eyes  and  good  nerve  to  get  away  with  the  goods  in  a 
big  shop  like  that.  Or  it  takes  something  alto 
gether  different.  It  was  the  different  way  she  did 
it.  She  took  up  the  piece  of  lace — it  was  a  big  col 
lar,  fine  like  a  cobweb  picture  in  threads, — you  can 
guess  what  it  must  have  been  worth  if  that  old  sin 
ner,  Mother  Douty,  gave  me  fifteen  dollars  for  it, 

71 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

She  took  it  up  In  a  quick,  eager  way,  as  though 
she'd  found  just  what  she  wanted.  Then  she  took 
out  a  lace  sample  from  her  gold-linked  purse  and 
held  them  both  up  close  to  her  blinky  little  eyes, 
looking  at  it  through  a  gold  lorgnette  with  emer 
alds  in  the  handle ;  pulling  it  and  feeling  it  with  the 
air  of  one  who  knows  a  fine  thing  when  she  sees  it, 
and  just  what  makes  it  fine.  Then  she  rustled  off 
to  the  door  to  examine  it  closely  in  the  light,  and — 
Mag  Monahan,  she  walked  right  out  with  it ! 

At  least,  she'd  got  beyond  the  inner  doors  when 
I  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  beg  pardon,  madam."    My  best  style,  Mag. 

She  pulled  herself  up  haughtily  and  blinked  at 
me.  She  was  a  little,  thin  mummy  of  a  woman,  just 
wrapped  away  in  silks  and  velvets,  but  on  the  in 
side  of  that  nervous,  little  old  body  of  hers  there 
must  have  been  some  spring  of  good  material  that 
wasn't  all  unwound  yet. 

She  stood  blinking  at  me  without  a  word. 

"That  lace.    You  haven't  paid  for  it,"  I  said. 

Her  short-sighted  eyes  fell  from  my  face  to  the 
collar  she  held  in  her  hand.  Her  yellow  face  grew 
ghastly. 

"Oh,  mercy!  You — you  don't — " 
75 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 


"I  am  a  detective  for  the  store,  an 

"But—" 

"Sh  !  We  don't  like  any  noise  made  about  these 
things,  and  you  yourself  wouldn't  enjoy  —  " 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am,  young  woman  ?"  She 
fumbled  in  her  satchel  and  passed  a  card  to  me. 

Glory  be  !  Guess,  Mag.  Oh,  you'd  never  guess, 
you  dear  old  Mag!  Besides,  you  haven't  got  the 
acquaintance  in  high  society  that  Nance  Olden  can 
boast. 


MBS.   MILLS  D.  VAN   WAGENEN 


Oh — Mag !  Shame  on  you  not  to  know  the  name 
even  of  the  Bishop  of  the  great  state  of — yes,  the 
lean,  short  little  Bishop  with  a  little  white  beard, 
and  the  softest  eye  and  the  softest  heart  and — my 
very  own  Bishop,  Nancy  Olden's  Bishop.  And  this 
was  his  wife. 

Tut — tut,  Mag !  Of  course  not.  A  bishop's  wife 
I  may  be  a  kleptomaniac ;  it's  only  Cruelty  girls  that 
really  steal  from  stores. 

"I've  met  the  Bishop,  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen."  I 
didn't  say  how — she  wouldn't  appreciate  that  story, 
76 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

'And  he  was  once  very  kind  to  me.  But  he  would 
be  the  first  to  tell  me  to  do  my  duty  now.  I'll  do  it 
as  quietly  as  I  can  for  his  sake.  But  you  must  come 
with  me  or  I  must  arrest — " 

She  put  up  a  shaking  hand.    Dear  little  old  guy  ! 

"Don't — don't  say  it!  It's  all  a  mistake,  which 
can  be  rectified  in  a  moment.  I've  been  trying  to 
match  this  piece  of  lace  for  years.  I  got  it  at 
Malta  when — when  Mills  and  I — on  our  honey 
moon.  When  I  saw  it  there  on  the  counter  I  was  so 
delighted — I  never  thought — I  intended  taking  it 
to  the  light  to  be  sure  the  pattern  was  the  same,  my 
eyesight  is  so  wretched — and  when  you  spoke  to 
me  it  was  the  first  inkling  I  had  that  I  hac?  really 
taken  it  without  paying!  You  certainly  under 
stand,"  she  pleaded  in  agitation.  "I  have  no  need 
to  steal — you  must  know  that — oh,  that  I  wouldn't 
— that  I  couldn't —  If  you  will  just  let  me  pay 
you — " 

Here  now,  Mag  Monahan,  don't  you  get  to  sneer 
ing.  She  was  straight — right  on  the  level,  all 
right.  You  couldn't  listen  to  that  cracked  little 
voice  of  hers  a  minute  without  being  sure  of  it. 

I  was  just  about  to  permit  her  graciously  to  pay 
me  the  money, — for  my  friend,  the  dear  Bishop's 
77 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

sake,  of  course, — when  a  big  floor-walker  happened 
to  catch  sight  of  us. 

"If  you'll  come  with  me,  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen,  to  a 
dressing-room,  I'll  arrange  your  collar  for  you,"  I 
said  very  loud.  And  then,  in  a  whisper:  "Of 
course,  I  understand,  but  the  thing  may  look  dif 
ferent  to  other  people.  And  that  big  floor-walker 
there  gets  a  commission  from  the  newspapers  every 
time  he  tells  them — " 

She  gave  a  squawk  for  all  the  world  like  a  dried- 
up  little  hen  scuttling  out  of  a  yellow  dog's  way, 
and  we  took  the  elevator  to  the  second  floor. 

The  minute  I  closed  the  door  of  the  little  fitting- 
room  she  held  out  the  lace  to  me. 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,"  she  said,  "and  shall 
give  you  the  lace  back.  I  will  not  keep  it.  I  can 
not — I  can  not  bear  the  sight  of  it.  It  terrifies  me 
and  shocks  me.  I  can  take  no  pleasure  in  it.  Be 
sides — besides,  it  will  be  discipline  for  me  to  do 
without  it  now  that  I  have  found  it  after  all  these 
years.  Every  day  I  shall  look  at  the  place  in  my 
collection  which  it  would  have  occupied,  and  I  shall 
say  to  myself:  'Maria  Van  Wagenen,  take  warn 
ing.  See  to  what  terrible  straits  a  worldly  passion 


78 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

may  bring  one;  what  unconscious  greed  may  doT 
I  shall  give  the  money  to  Mills  for  charity  and  I 
will  never — never  fill  that  place  in  my  collection." 

"What  good  will  that  do?"  I  asked,  puzzled, 
while  I  folded  the  collar  up  into  a  very  small  pack 
age. 

"You  mean  that  I  ought  to  submit  to  the  expo 
sure — that  I  deserve  the  lesson  and  the  punishment 
—not  for  stealing,  but  for  being  absorbed  in 
worldly  things.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  It  cer 
tainly  shows  that  you  have  at  some  time  been  under 
Mills'  spiritual  care,  my  dear.  I  wonder  if  he 
would  insist — whether  I  ought — yes,  I  suppose  he 
would.  Oh !" 

A  saleswoman's  head  was  thrust  in  the  door. 
"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "I  thought  the  room  was 
empty." 

"We've  just  finished  trying  on,"  I  said  sweetly. 

"Don't  go !"  The  Bishop's  wife  turned  to  her, 
her  little  fluttering  hands  held  out  appealingly. 
"And  do  not  misunderstand  me.  The  thing  may 
seem  wrong  in  your  eyes,  as  this  young  woman  says, 
but  if  you  will  listen  patiently  to  my  explanation, 
I  am  sure  you  will  see  that  it  was  a  mere  eager  over- 


79 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

sight — the  fault  of  absent-mindedness,  hardly  the 
sin  of  covetousness,  and  surely  not  a  crime.  I  am 
making  this  confession — " 

The  tender  conscience  of  the  dear,  blameless  lit 
tle  soul !  She  was  actually  giving  herself  away. 
Worse — she  was  giving  me  awa}^  too.  But  I 
couldn't  stand  that.  I  saw  the  saleswoman's  puz 
zled  face — she  was  a  tall  woman  with  a  big  bust,  big 
hips  and  the  big  head  all  right,  and  she  wore  her 
long-train  black  rig  for  all  the  world  like  a  Cruelty 
girl  who  had  stolen  the  matron's  skirt  to  "play 
lady"  in.  I  got  behind  little  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  look 
ing  out  over  her  head,  I  tapped  my  forehead  sig 
nificantly. 

The  saleswoman  tumbled.  That  was  all  right. 
But  so  did  the  Bishop's  wife;  for  she  turned  and 
caught  me  at  it. 

"You  shall  not  save  me  from  myself  and  what  I 
deserve,"  she  cried.  "I  am  perfectly  sane  and  you 
know  it,  and  you  are  doing  me  no  favor  in  trying 
to  create  the  contrary  impression.  I  demand  an — " 

"An  interview  with  the  manager,"  I  interrupted, 
"I'm  sure  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen  can  see  the  manager. 
Just  go  with  the  lady,  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen,  and  I'll 
follow  with  the  goods." 

80 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

She  did  it  meek  as  a  lamb,  talking  all  the  time, 
but  never  beginning  at  the  beginning — luckily  for 
me.  So  that  I  had  time  to  slip  from  one  dressing- 
room  to  the  next,  with  the  lace  up  my  sleeve,  out  to 
the  elevator,  and  down  into  the  street. 

D'ye  know  what  heaven  must  be,  Mag  ?  A  place 
where  you  always  get  away  with  the  swag,  and 
where  it's  always  just  the  minute  after  you've  made 
a  killing. 

Cocky  ?  Well,  I  should  say  I  was.  I  was  drunk 
enough  with  success  to  take  big  chances.  And  just 
while  I  was  wishing  for  something  really  big  to 
tackle,  it  came  along  in  the  shape  of  that  big  floor 
walker  ! 

He  was  without  a  hat,  and  his  eyes  looked  fifty 
ways  at  once.  But  you've  got  to  look  fifty-one  if 
you  want  to  catch  Nance  Olden.  I  ran  up  the  stairs 
of  the  first  flat-house  and  rang  the  bell.  And  as  I 
sailed  up  in  the  elevator  I  saw  the  big  floor-walker 
hurry  past ;  he'd  lost  the  scent. 

The  boy  let  me  off  at  the  top  floor,  and  after  the 
elevator  had  gone  down  I  walked  up  to  the  roof.  It 
was  fine  'way  up  there,  so  still  and  high,  with  the 
lights  coming  out  down  in  the  town.  And  I  took 


81 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

out  my  pretty  lace  collar  and  put  it  around  my 
neck,  wishing  I  could  keep  it  and  wishing  that  I 
had,  at  least,  a  glass  to  see  myself  in  it  just  once, 
when  my  eye  caught  the  window  of  the  next  house, 

It  would  do  for  a  mirror  all  right,  for  the  dark 
green  shade  was  down.  But  at  sight  of  the  shade 
blowing  in  the  wind  I  forgot  all  about  the  collar. 

It's  this  way,  Mag,  when  they  press  you  too  far ; 
and  that  little  rat  of  a  lawyer  had  got  me  most  to 
the  wall.  I  looked  at  the  window,  measuring  the 
little  climb  it  would  be  for  me  to  get  to  it, — the 
house  next  door  was  just  one  story  higher  than  the 
one  where  I  was,  so  its  top  story  was  on  a  level  with 
the  roof  nearly  where  I  stood.  And  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  get  what  would  let  Tom  off  easy,  or  break 
into  jail  myself. 

And  so  I  didn't  care  much  what  I  might  fall  into 
through  that  window.  And  perhaps  because  I 
didn't  care,  I  slipped  into  a  dark  hall,  and  not  a 
thing  stirred;  not  a  footstep  creaked.  I  felt  like 
the  Princess — Princess  Nancy  Olden — come  to 
wake  the  Sleeping  Beauty ;  some  dude  it'd  be  that 
would  have  curly  hair  like  Tom  Dorgan's,  and 
would  wear  clothes  like  my  friend  Latimer's,  over 
in  Brooklyn. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Can  you  see  me  there,  standing  on  one  leg  like  a 
stork,  ready  to  lie  or  to  fly  at  the  first  sound? 

Well,  the  first  sound  didn't  come.  Neither  did 
the  second.  In  fact,  none  of  'em  came  unless  I  made 
'em  myself. 

Softly  as  Molly  goes  when  the  baby's  just 
dropped  off  to  sleep,  I  walked  toward  an  open  door. 
It  was  a  parlor,  smelly  with  tobacco,  and  with  lots 
of  papers  and  books  around.  And  nary  a  he- 
beauty — nor  any  other  kind. 

I  tried  the  door  of  a  room  next  to  it.  A  bed 
room.  But  no  Beauty. 

Silly!  Don't  you  tumble  yet?  It  was  a  bach 
elor's  apartment,  and  the  Bachelor  Beauty  was  out, 
and  Princess  Nancy  had  the  place  all  to  herself. 

I  suppose  I  really  ought  to  have  left  my  card — 
or  he  wouldn't  know  who  had  waked  him — but  I 
hadn't  intended  to  go  calling  when  I  left  home.  So 
I  thought  I'd  look  for  one  of  his  as  a  souvenir— 
and  anything  else  of  his  I  could  make  use  of. 

There  were  shirts  I'd  liked  for  Tom,  dandy  col 
ored  ones,  and  suits  with  checks  in  'em  and  with 
out.  But  I  wanted  something  easy  and  small  and 
flat,  made  of  crackly  printed  yellow  or  green  paper, 
with  numbers  on  it. 

83 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

How  did  I  know  he  had  anything  like  that? 
Why,  Mag,  Mag  Monahan,  one  would  think  you 
belonged  to  the  Bishop's  set,  you're  so  simple ! 

I  had  to  turn  on  the  electric  light  after  a  bit — it 
got  so  dark.  And  I  don't  like  light  in  other  peo 
ple's  houses  when  they're  not  at  home,  and  neither 
am  I.  But  there  was  nothing  in  the  bedroom  ex 
cept  some  pearl  studs.  I  got  those  and  then  went 
back  to  the  parlor. 

The  desk  caught  my  eye.  Oh,  Mag,  it  had  the 
loveliest  pictures  on  it — pictures  of  swell  actresses 
and  dancers.  It  was  mahogany,  with  lots  of  little 
drawers  and  two  curvy  side  boxes.  I  pulled  open 
all  the  drawers.  They  were  full  of  papers  all  right, 
but  they  were  printed,  cut  from  newspapers,  and  all 
about  theaters. 

"You  can't  feed  things  like  this,  Nance,  to  that 
shark  of  a  lawyer,"  I  said  to  myself,  pushing  the 
box  on  the  side  impatiently. 

And  then  I  giggled  outright. 

Why? 

Just  'cause — I  had  pushed  that  side  box  till  it 
swung  aside  on  hinges  I  didn't  know  about,  and 
there,  in  a  little  secret  nest,  was  a  pile  of  those  same 
crisp,  crinkly  paper  things  I'd  been  looking  for. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

20—40— 60— 110—160— 210— 260— 310 ! 

Three  hundred  and  ten  dollars,  Mag  Monahan 
Three  hundred  and  ten,  and  Nance  Olden ! 

"Glory  be !"  I  whispered. 

"Glory  be  damned !"  I  heard  behind  me. 

I  turned.  The  bills  just  leaked  out  of  my  hand 
on  to  the  floor. 

The  Bachelor  Beauty  had  come  home,  Mag,  and 
nabbed  the  poor  Princess,  instead  of  her  catching 
him  napping. 

He  wasn't  a  beauty  either — a  big,  stout  fellow 
with  a  black  mustache.  His  hand  on  my  shoulder 
held  me  tight,  but  the  look  in  his  eyes  behind  his 
glasses  held  me  tighter.  I  threw  out  my  arms  over 
the  desk  and  hid  my  face. 

Caught!  Nancy  Olden,  with  her  hands  drip 
ping,  and  not  a  lie  in  her  smart  mouth ! 

He  picked  up  the  bills  I  had  dropped,  counted 
them  and  put  them  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  un 
hooked  a  telephone  and  lifted  the  stand  from  his 
desk. 

"Hello!  Spring  3100-^please.  Hello!  Chiefs- 
office?  This  is  Obermuller,  Standard  Theater. 
I  want  an  officer  to  take  charge  of  a  thief  I've 


85 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

caught  in  my  apartments  here  at  the  Bronsonia. 
Yes,  right  on  the  corner.  Hold  him  till  you  come  ? 
Well— rather!" 

He  put  down  the  'phone.  I  pulled  the  pearl 
studs  out  of  my  pocket. 

"You  might  as  well  take  these,  too,"  I  said. 

"So  thoughtful  of  you,  seeing  that  you'd  be 
searched!  But  I'll  take  'em,  anyway.  You  in 
tended  them  for — Him?  You  didn't  get  anything 
else?" 

I  shook  my  head  as  I  lay  there. 

"Hum !"  It  was  half  a  laugh,  and  half  a  sneer. 
I  hated  him  for  it,  as  he  sat  leaning  back  on  the 
back  legs  of  his  chair,  his  thumbs  in  his  arm-holes. 
I  felt  his  eyes — those  smart,  keen  eyes,  burning 
into  my  miserable  head.  I  thought  of  the  lawyer 
and  the  deal  he'd  give  poor  Tom,  and  all  at  once — 

You'd  have  sniffled  yourself,  Mag  Monahan. 
There  I  was — caught.  The  cop'd  be  after  me  in 
five  minutes.  With  Tom  jugged,  and  me  in  stripes 
—it  wasn't  very  jolly,  and  I  lost  my  nerve. 

"Ashamed— huh?"  he  said  lightly. 

I  nodded.     I  was  ashamed. 

"Pity  you  didn't  get  ashamed  before  you  broke 
in  here." 

86 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"What  the  devil  was  there  to  be  ashamed  of?" 

The  sting  in  his  voice  had  cured  me.  I  never 
was  a  weeper.  I  sat  up,  my  face  blazing,  and 
stared  at  him.  He'd  got  me  to  hand  over  to  the 
cop,  but  he  hadn't  got  me  to  sneer  at. 

I  saw  by  the  look  he  gave  me,  that  he  hadn't 
really  seen  me  till  then. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "what  the  devil  is  there 
to  be  ashamed  of  now?" 

"Of  being  caught— that's  what." 

"Oh!" 

He  tilted  back  again  on  his  chair  and  laughed 
softly. 

"Then  you're  not  ashamed  of  your  profession?*9 

"Are  you  of  yours  ?" 

"Well— there's  a  slight  difference." 

"Not  much,  whatever  it  may  be.  It's  your  graft 
— it's  everybody's — to  take  all  he  can  get,  and  keep 
out  of  jail.  That's  mine,  too." 

"But  you  see  I  keep  out  of  jail." 

"I  see  you're  not  there — yet." 

"Oh,  I  think  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  Ft 
keep  out,  thank  you ;  imprisonment  for  debt  don*i 
go  nowadays." 

"Debt?" 

OT 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"I'm  a  theatrical  manager,  my  girl,  and  I'm  not 
an  the  inside :  which  is  another  way  of  saying  that 
a  man  who  can't  swim  has  fallen  overboard." 

"And  when  you  do  go  down — " 

"A  little  less  exultation,  my  dear,  or  I  might 
suppose  you'd  be  glad  when  I  do." 

"Well,  when  you  know  yourself  going  down 
for  the  last  time,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  won't 
grasp  at  a  straw  like — like  this?"  I  nodded 
toward  the  open  window,  and  the  desk  with  all  its 
papers  tumbling  out. 

"Not  much."  He  shook  his  head,  and  bit  the 
end  of  a  cigar  with  sharp,  white  teeth.  "It's  a 
fool  graft.  I'm  self-respecting.  And  I  don't  ad 
mire  fools."  He  lit  his  cigar  and  puffed  a  min 
ute,  taking  out  his  watch  to  look  at  it,  as  cold 
bloodedly  as  though  we  were  waiting,  he  and 
I,  to  go  to  supper  together.  Oh,  how  I  hated  him ! 

"Honesty  isn't  the  best  policy,"  he  went  on ;  "it's 
the  only  one.  The  vain  fool  that  gets  it  into 
his  head — or  shall  I  say  her  head?  No?  Well, 
no  offense,  I  assure  you — his  head  then,  that  he's 
smarter  than  a  world  full  of  experience,  ought  to 
be  put  in  jail — for  his  own  protection;  he's  too 


88 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

big  a  jay  to  be  left  out  of  doors.  For  five  thousand 
years,  more  or  less,  the  world  has  been  putting 
people  like  him  behind  bars,  where  they  can't 
make  asses  of  themselves.  Yet  each  year,  and  every 
day  and  every  hour,  a  new  ninny  is  born  who 
fancies  he's  cleverer  than  all  his  predecessors  put 
together.  Talk  about  suckers !  Why,  they're 
giants  of  intellect  compared  to  the  mentally  lop 
sided  that  five  thousand  years  of  experience  can't 
teach.  When  the  criminal-clown's  turn  comes,  he 
hops,  skips  and  jumps  into  the  ring  with  the  old, 
old  gag.  He  thinks  it's  new,  because  he  himself 
is  so  fresh  and  green.  'Here  I  am  again,'  he  yells, 
'the  fellow  that'll  do  you  up.  Others  have  tried 
it.  They're  dead  in  jail  or  under  jail-yards.  But 
me — just  watch  me!'  We  do,  and  after  a  little 
we  put  him  with  his  mates  and  a  keeper  in  a  barred 
kindergarten  where  fools  that  can't  learn,  little 
moral  cripples  of  both  sexes,  my  dear,  belong. 
Bah !"  He  puffed  out  the  smoke,  throwing  his  head 
back,  in  a  cloud  toward  the  ceiling. 

I  sprang  from  my  seat  and  faced  him.  I  was 
tingling  all  through.  I  didn't  care  a  rap  what 
became  of  me  for  just  that  minute  I  forgot 


89 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

about  Tom.  I  prayed  that  the  cop  wouldn't  come 
for  a  minute  yet — but  only  that  I  might  answer 
him. 

"You're  mighty  smart,  ain't  you?  You  can  sit 
back  here  and  sneer  at  me,  can't  you?  And  feel 
so  big  and  smart  and  triumphant!  What've  you 
done  but  catch  a  girl  at  her  first  bungling  job !  It 
makes  you  feel  awfully  cocky,  don't  it?  'What 
a  big  man  am  I!'  Bah!"  I  blew  the  smoke  up 
toward  the  ceiling  from  my  mouth,  with  just  that 
satisfied  gall  that  he  had  had ;  or  rather,  I  pretended 
to.  He  let  down  the  front  legs  of  his  chair  and 
began  to  stare  at  me. 

"And  you  don't  know  it  all,  Mr.  Manager,  not 
you.  Your  clown-criminal  don't  jump  into  the 
ring  because  he's  so  full  of  fun  he  can't  stay  out. 
He  goes  in  for  the  same  reason  the  real  clown  does — 
because  he  gets  hungry  and  thirsty  and  sleepy 
and  tired  like  other  men,  and  he's  got  to  fill  his 
stomach  and  cover  his  back  and  get  a  place  to  sleep. 
And  it's  because  your  kind  gets  too  much,  that  my 
kind  gets  so  little  it  has  to  piece  it  out  with  this 
sort  of  thing.  No,  you  don't  know  it  quite  all. 

"There's  a  girl  named  Nancy  Olden  that  could 
tell  you  a  lot,  smart  as  y«u  are.  She  could  show 
90 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

you  the  inside  of  the  Cruelty,  where  she  was  put 
so  young  she  never  knew  that  children  had  mothers 
and  fathers,  till  a  red-haired  girl  named  Mag 
Monahan  told  her;  and  then  she  was  mighty 
glad  she  hadn't  any.  She  thought  that  all  little 
girls  were  bloodless  and  dirty,  and  all  little  boys 
were  filthy  and  had  black  purple  marks  where  their 
fathers  had  tried  to  gouge  out  their  eyes.  She 
thought  all  women  were  like  the  matron  who  came 
with  a  visitor  up  to  the  bare  room,  where  we  played 
without  toys — the  new,  dirty,  newly-bruised  ones 
of  us,  and  the  old,  clean,  healing  ones  of  us — and 
said,  'Here,  chicks,  is  a  lady  who's  come  to  see  you. 
Tell  her  how  happy  you  are  here.'  Then  Mag's 
freckled  little  face,  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  looked 
up  like  this.  She  was  always  afraid  it  might  be 
her  mother  come  for  her.  And  the  crippled  boy 
jerked  himself  this  way — I  used  to  mimic  him,  and 
he'd  laugh  with  the  rest  of  them — over  the  bare 
floor.  He  always  hoped  for  a  penny.  Sometimes 
he  even  got  it. 

"And  the  boy  with  the  gouged  eye — he  would 

hold  his  pants  up  like  this.     He  had  just  come 

in,  and  there  was  nothing  to  fit  him.     And  he'd 

put  his  other  hand  over  his  bad  eye  and  blink  up 

91 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

at  her  like  this.  And  the  littlest  boy — oh,  hafi 
ha!  ha! — you  ought  have  seen  that  littlest  boy. 
He  was  in  skirts,  an  old  dress  they'd  given  me  to 
wear  the  first  day  I  came;  there  were  no  pants 
small  enough  for  him.  He'd  back  up  into  the 
corner  and  hide  his  face — like  this — and  peep  over 
his  shoulder ;  he  had  a  squint  that  way,  that  made 
his  face  so  funny.  See,  it  makes  you  laugh  your 
self.  But  his  body — my  God! — it  was  blue  with 
welts!  And  me — I'd  put  the  baby  down  that'd 
been  left  on  the  door-steps  of  the  Cruelty,  and  I'd 
waltz  up  to  the  lady,  the  nice,  patronizing,  rich 
lady,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  nose  and  her 
lorgnette  to  her  eyes — see,  like  this.  I  knew  just 
what  graft  would  work  her.  I  knew  what  she 
wanted  there.  I'd  learned.  So  I'd  make  her  a 
curtsy  like  this,  and  in  the  piousest  sing-song 
I'd—" 

There  was  a  heavy  step  out  in  the  hall — it 
was  the  policeman!  I'd  forgot  while  I  was  talk 
ing.  I  was  back — back  in  the  empty  garret,  at 
the  top  of  the  Cruelty.  I  could  smell  the  smell 
cxf  the  poor,  the  dirty,  weak,  sick  poor.  I  could 
taste  the  porridge  in  the  thick  little  bowls,  like 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

those  in  the  bear  story  Molly  tells  her  kid.  I 
could  hear  the  stifled  sobs  that  wise,  poor  children 
give — quiet  ones,  so  they'll  not  be  beaten  again. 
I  could  feel  the  night,  when  strange,  deserted,  tor 
tured  babies  lie  for  the  first  time,  each  in  his  small 
white  cot,  the  new  ones  waking  the  old  with  their 
cries  in  a  nightmare  of  what  had  happened  before 
the}-  got  to  the  Cruelty.  I  could  see  the  world 
barred  over,  as  I  saw  it  first  through  the  Cruelty's 
barred  windows,  and  as  I  must  see  it  again,  now 
that— 

"You  see,  you  don't  know  it  quite  all — yet,  Mr. 
Manager !"  I  spat  it  out  at  him,  and  then  walked 
to  the  cop,  my  hands  ready  for  the  bracelets. 

"But  there's  one  thing  I  do  know!"  He's  a 
big  fellow  but  quick  on  his  feet,  and  in  a  minute 
he  was  up  and  between  me  and  the  cop.  "And 
there  isn't  a  theatrical  man  in  all  America  that 
knows  it  quicker  than  Fred  Obermuller,  that  can 
detect  it  sooner  and  develop  it  better.  And  you've 
got  it,  girl,  you've  got  it !  .  .  .  Officer,  take 
this  for  your  trouble.  I  couldn't  hold  the  fellow, 
after  all.  Nevei  mind  which  way  he  went;  I'll  call 
up  the  office  and  explain." 


93 


IN    TPIE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Pie  shut  the  door  after  the  cop,  and  came  back 
to  me.  I  had  fallen  into  a  chair.  My  knees  were 
weak,  and  I  was  trembling  all  over. 

"Have  you  seen  the  playlet  Charity  at  th« 
Vaudeville  ?"  he  roared  at  me. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  it's  a  scene  in  a  foundling  asylum,. 
Here's  a  pass.  Go  up  now  and  see  it.  If  you 
hurry  you'll  get  there  just  in  time  for  that  act. 
Then  if  you  come  to  me  at  the  office  in  the  morning 
at  ten,  I'll  give  you  a  chance  as  one  of  the  Charity 
girls.  Do  you  want  it?" 

God,  Mag !     Do  I  want  it  I 


M 


Do  you  remember  Lady  Patronesses'  Day  at  the 
Cruelty,  Mag?  Remember  how  the  place  smelt 
of  cleaning  ammonia  on  the  bare  floors?  Remem 
ber  the  black  dresses  we  all  wore,  and  the  white 
aprons  with  the  little  bibs,  and  the  oily  sweetness 
of  the  matron,  and  how  our  faces  shone  and 
tingled  from  the  soap  and  the  rubbing?  Remem 
ber  it  all? 

Well,  who'd  'a'  thought  then  that  Nance  Olden 
ever  would  make  use  of  it — on  the  level,  too ! 

Drop  the  Cruelty,  and  tell  you  about  the  stage? 
Why,  it's  bare  boards  back  there,  bare  as  the 
Cruelty,  but  oh,  there's  something  that  you  don't 
see,  but  you  feel  it — something  magic  that  makes 
you  want  to  pinch  yourself  to  be  sure  you're  awake. 
I  go  round  there  just  doped  with  it;  my  face,  if 
you  could  see  it,  must  look  like  Molly's  kid's  when 
she  is  telling  him  fairy  stories. 

I  love  it,  Mag !     I  love  it ! 

And  what  do  I  do?  That's  what  I  was  trying 
95 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

to  tell  you  about  the  Cruelty  for.  It's  in  a  little 
act  that  was  made  for  Lady  Gray,  that  there  are 
four  Charity  girls  on  the  stage,  and  I'm  one  of  'em, 

Lady  Gray  ?  Why,  Mag,  how  can  you  ever  hopo 
to  get  on  if  you  don't  know  who's  who?  How  can 
you  expect  me  to  associate  with  you  if  you're  so 
ignorant?  Yes — a  real  Lady,  as  real  as  the  wife 
of  a  Lord  can  be.  Lord  Harold  Gray's  a  sure 
enough  Lord,  and  she's  his  wife  but — but  a  chippy, 
just  the  same;  that's  what  she  is,  in  spite  of  the 
Gray  emeralds  and  that  great  Gray  rose  diamond 
she  wears  on  the  tiniest  chain  around  her  scraggy 
neck.  Do  you  know,  Mag  Monahan,  that  this 
Lady  Harold  Gray  was  just  a  chorus  girl — and 
a  sweet  chorus  it  must  have  been  if  she  sang  there ! 
— when  she  nabbed  Lord  Harold? 

You'd  better  keep  your  eye  on  Nancy  Olden,  or 
first  thing  you  know  she'll  marry  the  Czar  of  Rus 
sia — or  Tom  Dorgan,  poor  fellow,  when  he  gets 
out!  .  .  .  Well,  just  the  same,  Mag,  if  that 
.white-faced,  scrawny  little  creature  can  be  a  Lady, 
a  girl  with  ten  times  her  brains,  and  at  least  half 
a  dozen  times  her  good  looks — oh,  we're  not  shy 
on  the  stage,  Mag,  about  throwing  bouquets  at 
ourselves ! 

96 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Can  she  act?  Don't  be  silly,  Mag!  Can't  you 
see  that  Obermuller's  just  hiring  her  title  and 
playing  it  in  big  letters  on  the  bills  for  all  it's 
worth?  She  acts  the  Lady  Patroness,  come  to  look 
at  us  Charity  girls.  She  comes  on,  though,  look 
ing  like  a  fairy  princess.  Her  dress  is  just  blaz 
ing  with  diamonds.  There's  the  Lady's  coronet 
in  her  hair.  Her  thin  little  arms  are  banded  with 
gold  and  diamonds,  and  on  her  neck — O  Mag, 
Mag,  that  rose  diamond  is  the  color  of  rose-leaves 
in  a  fountain's  jet  through  which  the  sun  is  shining. 
It's  long — long  as  my  thumb — I  swear  it  is,  Mag 
— nearly,  and  it  blazes,  oh,  it  blazes — 

Well,  it  blazes  dollars  into  Obermuller's  box  all 
right,  for  the  Gray  jewels  are  advertised  in  the  bill 
with  this  one  at  the  head  of  the  list,  the  star  of 
them  all. 

You  see  it's  this  way:  Lord  Harold  Gray's 
bankrupt.  He's  poor  as — as  Nance  Olden.  Isn't 
that  funny?  But  he's  got  the  family  jewels  all 
right,  to  have  as  long  as  he  lives.  Nary  a  one  can 
he  sell,  though,  for  after  his  death,  they  go  to  the 
next  Lord  Gray.  So  he  makes  'cm  make  a  living 
for  him,  and  as  they  can't  go  on  and  exhibit  them- 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

selves,  Lady  Gray  sports  'em — and  draws  dowB 
two  hundred  dollars  a  week. 

Yep — two  hundred. 

But  do  you  know  it  isn't  the  two  hundred  dollars 
a  week  that  makes  me  envy  her  till  I'm  sick ;  it's  that 
rose  diamond.  If  you  could  only  see  it,  Mag,  you'd 
sympathize  with  me,  and  understand  why  my  fin 
gers  just  itched  for  it  the  first  night  I  saw  her 
come  on. 

'Pon  my  soul,  Mag,  the  sight  of  it  blazing  on  her 
neck  dazzled  me  so  that  it  shut  out  all  the  staring 
audience  that  first  night,  and  I  even  forgot  to  have 
stage  fright. 

"What's  doped  you,  Olden?"  Obennuller  asked 
when  the  curtain  went  down,  and  we  all  hurried  to 
the  wings. 

I  was  in  the  black  dress  with  the  white-bibbed 
apron,  and  I  looked  up  at  him  still  dazed  by  the 
shine  of  that  diamond  and  my  longing  for  it. 
You'd  almost  kill  with  your  own  hands  for  a  dia 
mond  like  that,  Mag ! 

"Doped?  Why— what  didn't  I  do?"  I  asked 
him. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  curious 
ly;  but  I  could  feel  his  disappointment  in  me. 
98 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"You  didn't  do  anj'thing — not  a  blasted  thing 
more  than  you  were  told  to  do.  The  world's  full  of 
supers  that  can  do  that." 

For  just  a  minute  I  forgot  the  diamond. 

"Then — it's  a  mistake?  You  were  wrong  and — 
and  I  can't  be  an  actress?" 

He  threw  back  his  head  before  he  answered> 
puffing  a  mouthful  of  smoke  up  at  the  ceiling, 
as  he  did  the  night  he  caught  me.  The  gesture 
itself  seemed  to  remind  him  of  what  had  made  him 
think  in  the  first  place  he  could  make  an  actress  of 
me.  For  he  laughed  down  at  me,  and  I  saw  he 
remembered. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we'll  wait  and  see.  .  .  I 
was  mistaken,  though,  sure  enough,  about  one  thing 
that  night." 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

"You're  a  darn  sight  prettier  than  I  thought 
you  were.  The  gold  brick  you  sold  me  isn't 
all—" 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  touch  my  chin.  I  side 
stepped,  and  he  turned  laughing  to  the  stage. 

But  he  called  after  me. 

"Is  a  beauty  success  going  to  content  you 
Olden?" 

99 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Well,  we'll  wait  and  see,"  I  drawled  back  at 
him  in  his  own  throaty  bass. 

Oh,  I  was  drunk,  Mag,  drunk  with  thinking 
about  that  diamond!  I  didn't  care  even  to  please 
Obermuller.  I  just  wanted  the  feel  of  that  dia 
mond  in  my  hand.  I  wanted  it  lying  on  my  own 
neck — the  lovely,  cool,  shining,  rosy  thing.  It's 
like  the  sunrise,  Mag,  that  beauty  stone.  It's  just 
a  tiny  pool  of  water  blushing.  It's — 

How  to  get  it !  How  to  get  away  with  it !  On 
what  we'd  get  for  that  diamond,  Tom  and  I — when 
his  time  is  up — could  live  for  all  our  lives  and 
whoop  it  up  besides.  We  could  live  in  Paris,  where 
great  grafters  live  and  grafting  pays — where,  if 
you've  got  wit  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and 
happen  to  be  a  "darn  sight  prettier,"  you  can  just 
spin  the  world  around  your  little  finger! 

But,  do  you  know,  even  then  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  of  selling  the  pretty  thing?  It  hurt  me  to 
think  of  anybody  having  it  but  just  Nance  Olden. 

But  I  hadn't  got  it  yet; 

Gray  has  a  dressing-room  to  herself.     And  on 

her  table — which  is  a  big  box,  open  end  down — 

just  where  the  three-sided  big  mirror  can  multiply 

the  jewels  and  make  3?ou  want  'em  three  times  as 

100 


IN    THE   BISHOP  S    CARRIAGE 

bod,  her  big  russia-leather,  silver-mounted  box  lies 
open,  while  she's  dressing  and  undressing.  Other 
times  it's  locked  tight,  and  his  Lordship  himself 
has  it  tight  in  his  own  right  hand,  or  his  Lordship's 
man,  Topham,  has  it  just  as  tight. 

How  to  get  that  diamond!  There  was  a  hard 
nut  for  Nance  Olden's  sharp  teeth  to  crack.  I 
only  wanted  that — never  say  I'm  greedy,  Mag — 
Gray  could  keep  all  the  rest  of  the  things — the 
pigeon  in  rubies  and  pearls,  the  tiara  all  in  dia 
monds,  the  chain  of  pearls,  and  the  blazing  rings, 
and  the  waist-trimming  all  of  emeralds  and  dia 
mond  stars.  But  that  diamond,  that  huge  rose 
diamond,  I  couldn't,  I  just  couldn't  let  her  have  it, 

And  yet  I  didn't  know  the  first  step  to  take 
toward  getting  it,  till  Beryl  Blackburn  helped  me 
out.  She's  one  of  the  Charities,  like  me — a  tall 
bleached  blonde  with  a  pretty,  pale  face  and  gold- 
gray  eyes.  And,  if  you'd  believe  her,  there's  not  a 
man  in  the  audience,  afternoon  or  evening,  that 
isn't  dead-gone  on  her. 

"Guess  who's  my  latest,"  she  said  to  me  *his 
afternoon,  while  we  four  Charities  stood  ID  th* 
wings  waiting.  "Topham — old  Topham!" 

It  all  got  clear  to  me  then  in  a  minute. 
101 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Topham — nothing!"  I  sneered.  "Beryl  Big- 
ihead,  Topham  thinks  of  only  one  thing — Milady's 
jewel-box.  Don't  you  fool  yourself." 

"Oh,  does  he,  Miss!  Well,  just  to  prove  it,  he 
let  me  try  on  the  rose  diamond  last  night.  There !" 

"It's  easy  to  say  so  but  I  don't  see  the  proof. 
He'd  lose  his  job  so  quick  it'd  make  his  head  spin 
if  he  did  it." 

."Not  if  he  did,  but  if  they  knew  he  did.  You'll 
not  tell?" 

"Not  me.  Why  would  I?  I  don't  believe  it, 
and  I  wouldn't  expect  anybody  else  to.  I  don't 
believe  you  could  get  Topham  to  budge  from  his 
chair  in  Gray's  dressing-room  if  you'd — " 

"What'll  you  bet?" 

"I'll  bet  you  the  biggest  box  of  chocolate  creams 
at  Huyler's." 

"Done!  I'll  send  for  him  to-night,  just  before 
Gray  and  her  Lord  come,  and  you  see — " 

"How'll  I  see?     Where'll  I  be?" 

"Well,  you  be  waiting  in  the  little  hall,  right  off 
Gray's  dressing-room  at  seven-thirty  to-night  and 
• — you  might  as  well  bring  the  creams  with  you." 

Catch  on,  Mag?  At  seven-thirty  in  the  evening 
I  was  waiting;  but  not  in  the  little  hall  off  Gray's 
102 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

dressii?g-room.  I  hadn't  gone  home  at  all  after 
the  afternoon  performance — you  know  we  play 
at  three,  and  again  at  eight-thirty.  I  had  just 
hidden  me  away  till  the  rest  were  gone,  and  as  soon 
as  the  coast  was  clear  I  got  into  Gray's  dressing- 
room,  pushed  aside  the  chintz  curtains  of  the  big 
box  that  makes  her  dressing-table — and  waited. 

Lord,  how  the  hours  dragged!  I  hadn't  had 
anything  to  eat  since  lunch,  and  it  got  darker  and 
darker  in  there,  and  hot  and  close  and  cramped. 
I  put  in  the  time,  much  as  I  could,  thinking  of 
Tom.  The  very  first  thing  I'd  do  after  cashing  in, 
would  be  to  get  up  to  Sing  Sing  to  see  him.  I'm 
crazy  to  see  him.  I'd  tell  him  the  news  and  see 
if  he  couldn't  bribe  a  guard,  or  plan  some  scheme 
with  me  to  get  out  soon. 

Afraid — me?  What  of?  If  they  found  me  un 
der  that  box  I'd  j  ust  give  'em  the  Beryl  story  about 
the  bet.  How  do  you  know  they  wouldn't  believe 
it?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  care,  you've  got  to  take 
chances,  Mag  Monahan,  if  you  go  in  for  big  things. 
And  this  was  big — huge.  Do  you  know  how  much 
that  diamond's  worth?  And  do  you  know  how  to 
spend  fifty  thousand? 

I  spent  it  all  there — in  the  box — every  penny  of 
103 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

it.  When  I  got  tired  spending  money  I  dozed 
9  bit  and,  in  my  dream,  spent  it  over  again.  And 
then  I  waked  and  tried  to  fancy  new  ways  of 
getting  rid  of  it,  but  my  head  ached,  and  my  back 
ached,  and  my  whole  body  was  so  strained  and 
cramped  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  it  all 
up  when — that  blessed  old  Topham  came  in. 

He  set  the  big  box  down  with  a  bang  that  nearly 
cracked  my  head.  He  turned  on  the  lights,  and 
stood  whistling  Tommy  Atkins.  And  then  sud 
denly  there  came  a  soft  call,  "Topham !  Topham !" 

I  leaned  back  and  bit  my  fingers  till  I  knew 
I  wouldn't  shriek.  The  Englishman  listened  a 
minute.  Then  the  call  came  again,  and  Topham 
creaked  to  the  door  and  out. 

In  a  twinkling  I  was  out,  too,  you  bet. 

Mag !  He  hadn't  opened  the  box  at  all !  There 
it  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  space  framed  by  the 
three  glasses.  I  pulled  at  the  lid.  Locked!  I 
could  have  screamed  with  rage.  But  the  sound  of 
his  step  outside  the  door  sobered  me.  He  was 
coming,  back.  In  a  frantic  hurry  I  turned  toward 
the  window  which  I  had  unlocked  when  I  came  in 
four  hours  ago.  But  I  hadn't  time  to  make  it. 
I  heard  the  old  fellow's  hand  on  the  door,  and  I 
104 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

tumbled  back  into  the  box  in  such  a  rush  that  the 
curtains  were  still  waving  when  he  came  in. 

Slowly  he  began  to  place  the  jewels,  one  by  one, 
in  the  order  her  Ladyship  puts  them  on.  We 
Charity  girls  had  often  watched  him  from  the  door 
— he  never  let  one  of  us  put  a  foot  inside.  He 
was  method  and  order  itself.  He  never  changed 
the  order  in  which  he  lifted  the  glittering  things 
out,  nor  the  places  he  put  them  back  in.  I  put 
my  hand  up  against  the  top  of  the  box,  tracing 
the  spot  where  each  piece  would  be  lying.  Think, 
Mag,  just  half  an  inch  between  me  and  quarter 
of  a  million ! 

Oh,  I  was  sore  as  I  lay  there!  And  I  wasn't 
so  cock-sure  either  that  I'd  get  out  of  it  straight. 
I  tried  the  Beryl  story  lots  of  ways  on  myself,  but 
somehow,  every  time  I  fancied  myself  telling  it  to 
Obermuller,  it  got  tangled  up  and  lay  dumb  and 
heavy  inside  of  me. 

But  at  least  it  would  be  better  to  appear  of  my 
own  will  before  the  old  Englishman  than  be  discov 
ered  by  Lord  Gray  and  his  Lady.  I  had  my  fingers 
on  the  curtains,  and  in  another  second  I'd  been  out 
when — 

"Miss  Beryl  Blackburn's  compliments,  Mr.  Top- 
105 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

ham,  and  would  you  step  to  the  door,  as  there's 
something  most  important  she  wants  to  tell  you." 

Oh,  I  loved  every  syllable  that  call-boy  spoke! 
There  was  a  giggle  behind  his  voice,  too ;  old  Top- 
ham  was  the  butt  of  every  joke.  The  first  call, 
which  had  fooled  me,  must  have  been  from  some 
giddy  girl  who  wanted  to  guy  the  old  fellow.  She 
had  fooled  me  all  right.  But  this — this  one  was 
the  real  article. 

There  was  a  pause — Topham  must  be  looking 
about  to  be  sure  things  were  safe.  Then  he  creaked 
to  the  door  and  shut  it  carefully  behind  him. 

It  only  took  a  minute,  but  in  that  minute — in 
that  minute,  Mag,  I  had  the  rose  diamond  clutched 
safe  in  my  fingers;  I  was  on  the  top  of  the  big 
trunk  and  out  of  the  window. 

Oh,  the  feel  of  that  beautiful  thing  in  my  hand ! 
I'd  'a'  loved  it  if  it  hadn't  been  worth  a  penny,  but 
as  it  was  I  adored  it.  I  slipped  the  chain  under  my 
collar,  and  the  diamond  slid  down  my  neck,  and 
I  felt  its  kiss  on  my  skin.  I  flew  down  the  black 
corridor,  bumping  into  scenery  and  nearly  tripping 
two  stage  carpenters.  I  heard  Ginger,  the  call- 
boy,  ahead  of  me  and  dodged  behind  some  proper 
ties  just  in  time.  He  went  whistling  past  and  I 
got  to  the  stage  door. 

106 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  pulled  it  open  tenderly,  cautiously,  and  turned 
to  shut  it  after  me. 

And- 

And  something  held  it  open  in  spite  of  me. 

No — no,  Mag,  it  wasn't  a  man.  It  was  a 
memory.  It  rose  up  there  and  hit  me  right  over 
the  heart — the  memory  of  Nancy  Olden's  happi 
ness  the  first  time  she'd  come  in  this  very  door, 
feeling  that  she  actually  had  a  right  to  use  a  stage 
entrance,  feeling  that  she  belonged,  she — Nancy 
— to  this  wonderland  of  the  stage ! 

You  must  never  tell  Tom,  Mag,  promise!  He 
wouldn't  see.  He  couldn't  understand.  I  couldn't 
make  him  know  what  I  felt  any  more  than  I'd  dare 
tell  him  what  I  did. 

I  shut  the  door. 

But  not  behind  me.  I  shut  it  on  the  street 
and — Mag,  I  shut  for  ever  another  door,  too;  the 
old  door  that  opens  out  on  Crooked  Street.  With 
my  hand  on  my  heart,  that  was  beating  as  though 
it  would  burst,  I  flew  back  again  through  the  black 
corridor,  through  the  wings  and  out  to  Obermul- 
ler's  office.  With  both  my  hands  I  ripped  open  the 
neck  of  my  dress,  and,  pulling  the  chain  with  that 
great  diamond  hanging  to  it,  I  broke  it  with  a 
107 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

tug,  and  threw  the  whole  thing  down  on  the  desk 
in  front  of  him. 

"For  God's  sake !"  I  yelled.  "Don't  make  it  so 
easy  for  me  to  steal !" 

I  don't  know  what  happened  for  a  minute.  I 
could  see  his  face  change  half  a  dozen  ways  in  as 
many  seconds.  He  took  it  up  in  his  fingers  at 
last.  It  swung  there  at  the  end  of  the  slender 
little  broken  chain  like  a  great  drop  of  shining 
water,  blushing  and  sparkling  and  trembling. 

His  hands  trembled,  too,  and  he  looked  up  at 
last  from  the  diamond  to  my  face. 

"It's  worth  at  least  fifty  thousand,  you  know — 
valued  at  that." 

I  didn't  answer. 

He  got  up  and  came  over  to  where  I  had  thrown 
myself  on  a  bench. 

"What's  the  matter,  Olden?  Don't  I  pay  you 
enough?" 

"I  want  to  see  Tom,"  I  begged.  "It's  so  long 
since  he —  He's  up  at — at — in  the  country." 

"Sing  Sing?" 

I  nodded. 

"You  poor  little  devil!" 

That  finished  me.  I'm  not  used  to  being  pitied. 
108 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  sobbed  and  sobbed  as  though  some  dam  had 
broken  inside  of  me.  You  see,  Mag,  I  knew  in 
that  minute  that  I'd  been  afraid,  deathly  afraid  of 
Fred  Obermuller's  face,  when  it's  scornful  and  sar 
castic,  and  of  his  voice,  when  it  cuts  the  flesh  of 
self-conceit  off  your  very  bones.  And  the  con 
trast — well,  it  was  too  much  for  me. 

But  something  came  quick  to  sober  me. 

It  was  Gray.  She  stormed  in,  followed  by  Lord 
Harold  and  Topham,  and  half  the  company. 

"The  diamond,  the  rose  diamond !"  she  shrieked. 
"It's  gone!  And  the  carpenters  say  that  new  girl 
Olden  came  flying  from  the  direction  of  my  dress 
ing-room.  I'll  hold  you  responsible — " 

"Hush-sh!"  Obermuller  lifted  his  hands  and 
nodded  over  toward  me. 

"Olden!"  she  squealed.  "Grab  her,  Topham. 
I'll  bet  she  stole  that  diamond,  and  she  can't  have 
got  rid  of  it  yet." 

Topham  jumped  toward  me,  but  Obermuller 
stopped  him. 

"You'd  win  only  half  your  bet,  my  Lady,"  Ober 
muller  said  softly.  "She  did  get  hold  of  the  Gray 
rose,  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars,  in  spite  of  all 
your  precautions-*." 

109 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

The  world  seemed  to  fall  away  from  me.  I 
looked  up  at  him.  I  couldn't  believe  he'd  go  back 
on  me. 

" — And  she  brought  it  straight  to  me,  as  I  had 
asked  her  to,  and  promised  to  raise  her  salary  if 
she'd  win  out.  For  I  knew  that  unless  I  proved 
to  you  it  could  be  stolen,  you'd  never  agree  to  hire 
a  detective  to  watch  those  things,  which  will  get  us 
all  into  trouble  some  day.  Here!  Scoot  out  o' 
this.  It's  nearly  time  for  your  number." 

He  passed  the  diamond  over  to  her,  and  they  all 
left  the  office. 

So  did  I ;  but  he  held  out  his  hand  as  I  passed. 
"It  goes — that  about  a  raise  for  you,  Olden.  Now 
earn  it." 

Isn't  he  white,  Mag— white  clean  through,  that 
big  fellow  Obermuller? 


110 


vt 


I  got  into  the  train,  Mag,  the  happiest  girl  in  all 
the  country.  I'd  a  big  basket  of  things  for  Tom. 
I  was  got  up  in  my  Sunday  best,  for  I  wanted  to 
make  a  hit  with  some  fellow  with  a  key  up  there, 
who'd  make  things  soft  and  easy  for  my  Tommy. 

I  had  so  much  to  tell  him.  I  knew  just  how 
I'd  take  off  every  member  of  the  company  to  amuse 
him.  I  had  memorized  every  joke  I'd  heard  since 
I'd  got  behind  the  curtain — not  very  hard  for  me ; 
things  always  had  a  way  of  sticking  in  my  mind. 
I  knew  the  newest  songs  in  town,  and  the  choruses 
of  all  the  old  ones.  I  could  show,  him  the  latest 
tricks  with  cards — I'd  got  those  at  first  hand  from 
Professor  Haughwout.  You  know  how  great  Tom 
is  on  tricks.  I  could  explain  the  disappearing 
woman  mystery,  and  the  mirror  cabinet.  I  knew 
the  clog  dance  that  Dcwitt  and  Daniels  do.  I  had 
pictures  of  the  trained  seals,  the  great  elephant 
act,  Mademoiselle  Picotte  doing  her  great  tight- 
Ill 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

rope  dance,  and  the  Brothers  Borodini  in  their 
pyramid  tumbling. 

Yes,  it  was  a  whole  vaudeville  show,  with  refresh 
ments  between  the  acts,  that  I  was  taking  up  to 
Tom  D organ.  I  don't  care  much  for  a  lot  of  that 
truck — funny,  isn't  it,  how  you  get  to  turn  up  your 
nose  at  the  things  you'd  have  given  a  finger  for 
once  upon  a  time?  But  Tom — oh,  I'd  got  every 
thing  pat  for  him — my  big,  handsome  Tom  Dor- 
gan  in  stripes — with  his  curls  all  shaved  off — ugh ! 

I'd  got  just  so  far  in  my  thoughts,  sitting 
there  in  the  train,  when  I  gave  a  shiver.  I  thought 
for  a  minute  it  was  at  the  idea  of  my  Tom  with 
one  of  those  bare,  round  convict-heads  on  him, 
that  look  like  fat  skeleton  faces.  But  it  wasn't. 
It  was — 

Guess,  Mag. 

Moriway. 

Both  of  us  thought  the  same  thing  of  each  other 
for  the  first  second  that  our  eyes  met.  I  could  see 
that.  He  thought  I  was  caught  at  last.  And  I 
thought  he'd  been  sharp  once  too  often. 

And,  Mag,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of 
us  would  have  been  happier  if  it  had  been  the  truth* 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  to  meet  Moriway,  bound  sure  enough  for  Sing 
Sing! 

He  got  up  and  came  over  to  me,  smiling 
wickedly.  He  took  the  seat  behind  me,  and  lean 
ing  forward,  said  softly : 

"Is  Miss  Omar  engaged  to  read  to  some  invalid 
up  at  Sing  Sing?  And  for  how  long  a  term — I 
should  say,  engagement  ?" 

I'd  got  through  shivering  by  then.  I  was  ready 
for  him.  I  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  that  very 
polite,  distant  sort  o'  way  Gray  uses  in  her  act 
when  the  Charity  superintendent  speaks  to  her. 
It's  the  only  decent  thing  she  does;  chances  are 
that  that's  how  Lord  Gray's  mother  looks  at  her. 

"You  know  my  sister,  Mr. — Mr. — "  I  asked 
humbly. 

He  looked  at  me,  perplexed  for  just  a  second. 

"Sister  be  hanged!"  he  said  at  last.  "I  know 
you,  Nat,  and  I'm  glad  to  my  finger-tips  that 
you've  got  it  in  the  neck,  in  spite  of  all  your  smart 
ness." 

"You're  altogether  wrong,  sir,"  I  said  very 
stately,  but  hurt  a  bit,  you  know.  "I've  often 
been  taken  for  my  sister,  but  gentlemen  usually 


113 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

apologize  when  I  explain  to  them.  It's  hard 
enough  to  have  a  sister  who — "  I  looked  up  at  him 
tearfully,  with  my  chin  a-wabble  with  sorrow. 

He  grinned. 

"Liars  should  have  good  memories,"  he  sneered. 
"Miss  Omar  said  she  was  an  orphan,  you  remem 
ber,  and  had  not  a  relative  in  the  world." 

"Did  she  say  that?  Did  Nora  say  that?"  I 
exclaimed  piteously.  "Oh,  what  a  little  liar  she 
is!  I  suppose  she  thought  it  made  her  more  in 
teresting  to  be  so  alone,  more  appealing  to  kind- 
hearted  gentlemen  like  yourself.  I  hope  she  wasn't 
ungrateful  to  you,  too,  as  she  was  to  that  kind 
Mr.  Latimer,  before  he  found  her  out.  And  she 
had  such  a  good  position  there,  too!" 

I  wanted  to  look  at  him,  oh,  I  wanted  to!  But 
it  was  my  role  to  sit  there  with  downcast  eyes,  just 
the  picture  of  holy  grief.  I  was  the  good  one — 
the  good,  shocked  sister,  and  though  I  wasn't  a 
bit  afraid  of  anything  he  could  do  to  me,  or  any 
game  he  could  put  up,  I  yearned  to  make  him 
believe  me — just  because  he  was  so  suspicious,  so 
wickedly  smart,  so  sure  he  was  on. 

But  his  very  silence  sort  of  told  me  he  almost 
believed,  or  that  he  was  laying  a  trap. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  "how  you — your 
sister  got  Latimer  to  lie  for  her?" 

"Mr.  Latimer — lie!  Oh,  you  don't  know  him. 
He  expected  a  lady  to  read  to  him  that  very  eve 
ning.  He  had  never  seen  her,  and  when  Nora 
walked  into  the  garden — " 

"After  getting  a  skirt  somewhere." 

"Yes — the  housekeeper's,  it  happened  to  be  her 
evening  out — why,  he  just  naturally  supposed 
Nora  was  Miss  Omar." 

"Ah!  then  her  name  isn't  Omar.  What  might 
it  be?" 

"I'd  rather  not  tell— if  you  don't  mind." 

"But  when  Latimer  found  out  she  had  the  dia 
monds — he  did  find  out?" 

"She  confessed  to  him.  Nora's  not  really  sc 
bad  a  girl  as — " 

"Very  interesting!  But  it  doesn't  happen  to  be 
Latimer's  version.  And  you  say  Latimer  wouldn't 
lie." 

I  got  pale — but  the  paleness  was  on  the  inside 
of  me.  Think  I  was  going  to  flinch  before  a 
chump  like  Moriway,  even  if  I  had  walked  straight 
into  his  trap  ? 

«It  isn't?"  I  exclaimed. 
115 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"No.  Latimer's  note  to  Mrs.  Kingdon  said  the 
diamonds  were  found  in  the  bell-boy's  jacket  the 
thief  had  left  behind  him." 

"Well!  It  only  shows  what  a  bad  habit  lying 
is.  Nora  must  have  fibbed  to  me,  for  the  pure 
pleasure  of  fibbing.  I'll  never  dare  to  trust  her 
again.  Do  you  believe  then  that  she  didn't  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  hotel  robbery  ?  I  do  hope 
so.  It's  one  less  sin  on  her  wicked  head.  It's 
hard,  having  such  a  girl  in  the  family!"  Oh, 
wasn't  I  grieved! 

He  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye.  I  looked  at 
him.  I  was  unutterably  sad  about  that  tough 
sister  of  mine,  and  I  vow  I  looked  holy  then,  though 
I  .never  did  before  and  may  never  again. 

"Well,  I  only  saw  her  in  the  twilight,"  he  said 
slowly,  watching  my  face  all  the  time.  "You  two 
sisters  are  certainly  miraculously  alike." 

The  train  was  slowing  down,  and  I  got  up  with 
my  basket.  I  stood  right  before  him,  my  full  face 
turned  toward  him. 

"Are  we?"  I  asked  simply.  "Don't  you  think 
it's  more  the  expression  than  anything  else,  and 
the  voice?  Nora's  really  much  fairer  than  I  am, 
Good-by." 

116 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

He  watched  me  as  I  went  out.  I  felt  his  cyet 
on  the  back  of  my  jacket,  and  I  was  tempted  to 
turn  at  the  door  and  make  a  face  at  him.  But  I 
knew  something  better  and  safer  than  that.  I 
waited  till  the  train  was  just  pulling  out,  and  then> 
standing  below  his  window,  I  motioned  to  him  to 
raise  it. 

He  did. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  get  out  here,"  I 
called.  "Are  you  sure  you  don't  belong  in  Sing 
Sing,  Mr.  Moriway?" 

I  can  see  his  face  yet,  Mag,  and  every  time  I 
think  of  it,  it  makes  me  nearly  die  of  laughing. 
He  had  actually  been  fooled  another  time.  It 
was  worth  the  trip  up  there,  to  make  a  guy  of  him 
once  more. 

And  whether  it  was  or  not,  Mag,  it  was  all  I  got> 
after  all.  For — would  you  believe  Tom  Dorgan 
would  turn  out  such  a  sorehead?  He's  kicked  up 
such  a  row  ever  since  he  got  there,  that  it's  the 
dark  cell  for  him,  and  solitary  confinement.  Think 
of  it— for  Tom ! 

I  begged,  I  bluffed,  I  cried,  I  coaxed,  but 
many's  the  Nance  Olden  that  has  played  her  game 
against  the  rules  of  Sing  Sing,  and  lost.  They 
117 


IN   THE   BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

wouldn't  even  let  me  leave  the  things  for  him.,  or 
give  him  a  message  from  me.  And  back  to  the 
station  I  had  to  carry  the  basket,  and  all  the 
schemes  I  had  to  make  old  Tom  Dorgan  grin. 

All  the  way  back  I  had  him  in  my  mind.  He's 
a  tiger — Tom — when  he's  roused.  I  could  see 
him,  shut  up  there  by  himself,  with  not  a  soul  to 
talk  to,  with  not  a  human  eye  to  look  into,  with 
not  a  thing  on  earth  to  do — Tom,  who's  action 
itself!  He  never  was  much  of  a  thinker,  and  I 
never  saw  him  read  even  a  newspaper.  What 
would  he  do  to  kill  the  time?  Can't  you  see  him 
there,  at  bay,  back  on  his  haunches,  cursing  and 
cursed,  alone  in  the  everlasting  black  silence? 

I  saw  nothing  else.  Wherever  I  turned  my  eyes, 
that  terrible  picture  was  before  me.  And  always 
it  was  just  on  the  verge  of  becoming  something 
else — something  worse.  He  could  throttle  the 
world  with  his  bare  hands,  if  it  had  but  one  neck, 
in  the  mood  he  must  be  in  now. 

It  was  when  I  couldn't  bear  it  a  moment  longer 
that  I  set  my  mind  to  find  something  else  to  think 
of. 

I  found  it,  Mag.     Do  you  know  what  it  was? 


118 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

It  was  just  three  words — of  Obormuller's :    "Earc. 
it  now." 

After  all,  Miss  Monahan,  this  graft  of  honesty 
they  all  preach  so  much  about  hasn't  anything 
mysterious  in  it.  All  it  is,  is  putting  your  wits  to 
work  according  to  the  rules  of  the  game  and  not 
against  them.  I  was  driven  to  it — the  thought  of 
big  Tom  crouching  for  a  spring  in  the  dark  cell  up 
yonder  sent  me  whirling  out  into  the  thinking  place, 
like  the  picture  of  the  soul  in  the  big  book  at  Lat- 
imer's  I  read  out  of.  And  first  thing  you  knowy 
'pon  honor,  Mag,  it  was  as  much  fun  planning  how 
to  "earn  it  now"  as  any  lifting  I  ever  schemed, 
It's  getting  the  best  of  people  that  always  charmed 
me — and  here  was  a  way  to  fool  'em  according  to 
law. 

So  busy  I  was  making  it  all  up,  that  the  train 
pulled  into  the  station  before  I  knew  it.  I  gave 
a  last  thought  to  that  poor  old  hyena  of  a  Toms 
and  then  put  him  out  of  my  mind.  I  had  other  fish 
to  fry.  Straight  down  to  Mother  Douty  I  went 
with  my  basket. 

"A  fool  girl,  mother,  on  her  way  up  to  Sing 
Sing,  lost  her  basket,  and  Nance  Olden  found  it^ 
it  ought  to  be  worth  a  good  deal." 
119 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

She  grinned.  You  couldn't  make  old  Douty 
believe  that  the  Lord  himself  wouldn't  steal  if  He 
got  a  chance.  And  she  knows  the  chances  that 
come  butting  up  against  Nancy  Olden. 

Why  did  I  lie  to  her?  Not  for  practice,  I  assure 
you.  She'd  have  beaten  me  down  to  the  last  cent 
if  she  thought  it  was  mine,  but  she  always  thinks 
there'll  be  a  find  for  her  in  something  that's  stolen. 
So  I  let  her  think  I'd  stolen  it  in  the  railway  station, 
and  we  came  to  terms. 

With  what  she  gave  me  I  bought  a  wig.  Mag, 
I  want  you  some  day,  when  you  can  get  off,  to 
come  and  see  that  wig.  I  shouldn't  wonder  but 
you'd  recognize  it.  It's  red,  of  very  coarse  hair, 
but  a  wonderful  color,  and  so  long  it — yes,  it  might 
be  your  own,  Mag  Monahan,  it's  so  much  like  it. 
I  went  to  the  theater  and  got  my  Charity  rig,  took 
it  home,  and  sat  for  hours  there  just  looking  at  'em 
both.  When  evening  came  I  was  ready  to  "earn 
it  now." 

You  see,  Obermuller  had  given  me  the  whole  day 
to  be  away,  and  neither  Gray  nor  the  other  three 
Charities  expected  me  back.  I  had  to  do  it  on  the 
sly,  you  sassy  Mag!  Yes,  it  was  partly  because  I 
love  to  cheat,  but  more  because  I  was  bound  to  have 
120 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

my  chance  once  whether  anybody  else  enjoyed  it  or 
not. 

I  came  to  the  theater  in  my  Charity  rig  and  the 
wig.  It  looked  as  if  I'd  slept  in  it,  and  it  came 
down  to  the  draggled  hem  of  the  skirt.  All  the 
way  there  I  walked  like  you,  Mag.  Once,  when  a 
newsboy  grinned  at  me  and  shouted  "Carrots !"  I 
grinned  back — your  own,  old  Cruelty  grin,  Mag. 
I  vow  I  felt  so  much  like  you — as  you  used  to  be — 
that  when  I  lurched  out  on  the  stage  at  last,  stum 
bling  over  my  shoe  laces  and  trying  to  push  the  hair 
out  of  my  eyes,  you'd  have  sworn  it  was  little  Mag 
Monahan  making  her  debut  in  the  Cruelty  Board 
room. 

Oh,  Mag,  Mag,  you  darling  Mag !  Did  you  ever 
hear  a  whole  house,  a  great  big  theater  full  of  a 
peevish  vaudeville  audience,  just  rise  at  you,  give 
one  roar  of  laughter  they  hadn't  expected  at  all  to 
give,  and  then  settle  down  to  giggle  at  every  move 
you  made? 

Girl  alive,  I  just  had  'em!  They  couldn't  take 
their  eyes  off  me.  If  I  squirmed,  they  howled.  If  I 
stood  on  one  foot,  scratching  the  torn  leg  of  my 
stocking  with  the  other — you  know,  Mag! — they 
yelled.  If  I  grinned,  they  just  roared. 
121 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  Mag,  can't  you  see  ?  Don't  you  understand  ? 
I  was  It.  The  center  of  the  stage  I  carried  round 
with  me — it  was  just  Nancy  Olden.  And  for  ten 
minutes  Nancy  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  play  with 
'em.  'Pon  my  life,  Mag,  it's  just  like  stealing; 
the  old  graft  exactly ;  it's  so  fascinating,  so  busy, 
and  risky,  except  that  they  play  the  game  with  you 
and  pay  you  and  love  you  to  fool  'em. 

When  the  curtain  fell  it  was  different.  Gray, 
followed  by  the  Charities,  all  clean  and  spick-and- 
span  and — not  in  it ;  not  even  on  the  edge  of  it — 
stormed  up  to  Obermuller  standing  at  the  wings. 

"I'll  quit  the  show  here  and  now,"  she  squawked. 
"It's  a  shame,  a  beastly  shame.  How  dare  you  play 
me  such  a  trick,  Fred  Obermuller?  I  never  was 
treated  so  in  my  life — to  have  that  dirty  little 
wretch  come  tumbling  on  like  that,  without  even  so 
much  as  your  telling  me  you'd  made  up  all  this  new 
business  for  her!  It's  indecent,  anyway.  Why,  I 
lost  my  cue.  There  was  a  gap  for  a  full  minute. 
The  whole  act  was  such  a  ghastly  failure  that  I — " 

"That  you'd  better  go  out  now  and  make  your 
prettiest  bow,  Gray.  Phew!  Listen  to  the  house 
roar.  That's  what  I  call  applause.  Go  on  now." 

She  went. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Me?  I  didn't  say  a  word.  I  looked  at  Obermul- 
ler  and — and  I  just  did  like  this.  Yes,  winked,  Mag 
Monahan.  I  was  so  crazily  happy  I  had  to, 
didn't  I? 

Eut  do  you  know  what  he  did?  Do  you  know 
what  he  did  ? 

Well,  I  suppose  I  am  screaming  and  the  Troyons 
will  put  me  out,  but — he  just — winked — back! 

And  then  Gray  came  trailing  back  into  the  wings, 
and  the  shrieking  and  thumping  and  whistling  out 
in  front  just  wenr  <TM — and  on — and  on — and  on. 
Um!  I  just  listened  and  loved  it — every  thump  of 
it.  And  I  stood  there  like  a  demure  little  kitten ;  or 
more  like  Mag  Monahan  after  she'd  had  a  good 
licking,  and  was  good  and  quiet.  And  I  never  so 
much  «-«  budged  till  Obermullcr  said : 

"Well,  Nance,  you  have  earned  it.  The  gall  of 
you!  But  it  only  proves  that  Fred  Obermuller 
never  yet  bought  a  gold  brick.  Only,  let  me  in  on 
your  racket  next  time.  There,  go  on — take  it.  It's 
yours." 

Oh,  to  have  Fred  Obermuller  say  things  like  that 
to  you! 

He  gave  me  a  bit  of  a  push.    'Twas  just  a  love- 
pat.    I  stumbled  out  on  to  the  stage. 
123 


VIL 

And  that's  why,  Marguerite  de  Monahan,  I  want 
you  to  buy  in  with  the  madam  here.  Let  'em  keep 
on  calling  it  Troyon's  as  much  as  they  want,  but 
you're  to  be  a  partner  on  the  money  I'll  give  you. 
If  this  fairy  story  lasts,  it'll  be  your  own,  Mag — a 
sort  of  commission  you  get  on  my  take-off  of  you. 
But  if  anything  happens  to  the  world — if  it  should 
go  crazy,  or  get  sane,  and  not  love  Nancy  Olden 
any  more,  why,  here'll  be  a  place  for  me,  too. 

Does  it  look  that  way  ?  Divil  a  bit,  you  croaker ! 
It  looks — it  looks — listen  and  I'll  tell  you  how  it 
looks. 

It  looks  as  though  Gray  and  the  great  Gray  rose 
diamond  and  the  three  Charities  had  all  become  a 
bit  of  background  for  Nance  Olden  to  play  upon. 

It  looks  as  though  the  audience  likes  the  sound  of 
my  voice  as  much  almost  as  I  do  myself;  anyway, 
as  much  as  it  does  the  sight  of  me. 

It  looks  as  though  the  press,  if  you  please,  had 
(discovered  a  new  stage  star,  for  down  comes  a  little 
124. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

reporter  to  interview  me — me,  Nancy  Olden  5 
Think  of  that,  Mag !  I  receive  him  all  in  my  Char 
ity  rig,  and  in  Obernmller's  office,  and  he  asks  me 
silly  questions  and  I  tell  him  a  lot  of  nonsense,  but 
some  truths,  too,  about  the  Cruelty.  Fancy,  he 
didn't  know  what  the  Cruelty  was !  S.  P.  C.  C.,  he 
calls  it.  And  all  the  time  we  talked  a  long-haired 
German  artist  he  had  brought  with  him  was  sketch 
ing  Nance  Olden  in  different  poses.  Isn't  that  the 
limit? 

What  d'ye  think  Tom  Dorgan'd  say  to  see  half 
a  page  of  Nancy  Olden  in  the  X-Rajj?  Wouldn't 
his  eyes  pop  ?  Poor  old  Tom !  .  .  .  No  dan 
ger — they  won't  let  him  have  the  papers.  .  .  . 
My  old  Tommy ! 

What  is  it,  Mag?  Oh,  what  was  I  saying?  Yes 
— yes,  how  it  looks. 

Well,  it  looks  as  though  the  Trust — yes,  the  big 
and  mighty  T.  T. — short  for  Theatrical  Trust, 
you  innocent — had  heard  of  that  same  Nance  Olden 
you  read  about  in  the  papers.  For  one  night  last 
week,  when  I'd  just  come  off  and  the  house  was  yell 
ing  and  shouting  behind  me,  Obermuller  meets  m^ 
in  the  wings  and  trots  me  off  to  his  private  office. 

"What  for?"  I  asked  him  on  the  way. 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

*sYou'll  find  out  in  a  minute.    Come  on." 

I  pulled  up  my  stocking  and  followed.  You 
know  I  wear  it  in  that  act  without  a  garter,  and  it's 
always  coming  down  the  way  yours  used  to,  Mag. 
Even  when  it  doesn't  come  down  I  pull  it  up,  I'm  so 
in  the  habit  of  doing  it. 

A  little  bit  of  a  man,  bald-headed,  with  a  dyspep 
tic  little  black  mustache  turned  down  at  the  corners, 
watched  me  come  in.  He  grinned  at  my  make-up, 
and  then  at  me. 

"Clever  little  girl,"  he  says  through  his  nose. 
5<How  much  do  you  stick  Obermuller  for?" 

"Clever  little  man,"  say  I,  bold  as  brass  and 
through  my  own  nose ;  "none  of  your  business." 

"Hi — you,  Olden !"  roared  Obermuller,  as  though 
I'd  run  away  and  he  was  trying  to  get  the  bit  from 
between  my  teeth.  "Answer  the  gentleman  pret 
tily.  Don't  you  know  a  representative  of  the 
mighty  T.  T.  when  you  see  him?  Can't  you  see  the 
Syndicate  aureole  about  his  noble  brow  ?  This  gen 
tleman,  Nance,  is  the  great  and  only  Max  Tausig. 
He  humbleth  the  exalted  and  uplif teth  the  lowly— 
or,  if  there's  more  money  in  it,  he  gives  to  him  that 
hath  and  steals  from  him  that  hasn't,  but  would 
mighty  well  like  to  have.  He  has  no  conscience,  nc 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

bow€L%  no  heart.  But  he  has  got  tin  and  nerve  and 
power  t**  beat  the  band.  In  short,  and  for  all  prac 
tical  purposes  for  one  in  your  profession,  Nancy 
Olden,  he's  just  God.  Down  on  your  knees  and  HA 
his  boots — Trust  gods  wear  boots,  patent  leathers 
— and  thank  him  for  permitting  it,  you  lucky 
baggage!" 

I  looked  at  the  little  man ;  the  angry  red  was  just 
fading  from  the  top  of  his  cocoanut-shaped  bald 
head. 

"You  always  were  a  fool,  Obermuller,"  he  said 
cordially.  "And  you  were  always  over-fond  of  your 
low-comedian  jokes.  If  you  hadn't  been  so  smart 
with  your  tongue,  you'd  had  more  friends  and  not 
so  many  enemies  in — " 

"In  the  heavenly  Syndicate,  eh?  Well,  I  have 
lived  without — " 

"You  have  lived,  but—" 

"But  where  do  I  expect  to  go  when  I  die?  Good 
theatrical  managers,  Nance,  when  they  die  as  indi 
viduals  go  to  Heaven — they  get  into  the  Trust* 
After  that  they  just  touch  buttons;  the  Trust  docs 
the  rest.  Bad  ones — the  kickers — the  Fred  Ober- 
mullers  go  to — a  place  where  salaries  cease  from 
troubling  and  royalties  are  at  rest.  It's  a  slow 
127 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

place  where — where,  in  short,  there's  nothing  do 
ing.  And  only  one  thing's  done — the  kicker.  It's 
that  place  Mr.  Tausig  thinks  I'm  bound  for.  And 
it's  that  place  he's  come  to  rescue  you  from,  from 
sheer  goodness  of  heart  and  a  wary  eye  for  all 
there's  in  it.  Cinch  him,  Olden,  for  all  the  traffic 
will  bear!" 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other— -Obermuller,  big 
and  savage  underneath  all  his  gay  talk,  I  knew 
him  well  enough  to  see  that;  the  little  man,  his 
mouth  turned  down  at  the  corners  and  a  sneer  in 
his  eye  for  the  fellow  that  wasn't  clever  enough  to 
get  in  with  the  push. 

"You  must  not  give  the  young  woman  the  big 
head,  Obermuller.  Her  own  is  big  enough,  I'll  bet, 
as  it  is.  I  ain't  prepared  to  make  any  startling 
offer  to  a  little  girl  that's  just  barely  got  her  nose 
above  the  wall.  The  slightest  shake  might  knock 
her  off  altogether,  or  she  mightn't  have  strength 
enough  in  herself  to  hold  on.  But  we'll  give  her 
a  chance.  And  because  of  what  it  may  lead  to,  if 
she  works  hard,  because  of  the  opportunities  we 
can  give  her,  there  ain't  so  much  in  it  in  a  money 
way  as  you  might  imagine." 

Obermuller  didn't  say  anything.  His  own  lips 
123 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

and  his   own   eyes   sneered   now,   and   he   winked 
openly  at  me,  which  made  the  little  man  hot. 

"Blast  it !"  he  twanged.  "I  mean  it.  If  you've 
got  any  notion  through  my  coming  down  to  your 
dirty  little  joint  that  we've  set  our  hearts  on  hav 
ing  the  girl,  just  get  busy  thinking  something  else. 
She  may  be  worth  something  to  you — measured  up 
against  the  dubs  you've  got ;  but  to  us — " 

"To  you,  it's  not  so  much  your  not  having  her 
as  my  having  her  that — " 

"Exactly.  It  ain't  our  policy  to  leave  any 
doubtful  cards  in  the  enemy's  hands.  He  can  have 
the  bad  ones.  He  couldn't  get  the  good  ones.  And 
the  doubtful  ones,  like  this  girl  Olden — " 

"Well,  that's  just  where  you're  mistaken!" 
Obermuller  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets 
and  put  out  that  square  chin  of  his  like  the  fighter 
he  is.  "  'This  girl  Olden'  is  anything  but  doubt 
ful.  She's  a  big  card  right  now  if  she  could  be 
well  handled.  And  the  time  isn't  so  far  off  when, 
if  you  get  her,  you  people  will  be — " 

"Just  how  much  is  your  interest  in  her  worth?" 
the  little  man  sneered. 

Obermuller  glared  at  him,  and  in  the  pause  I 
murmured  demurely : 

129 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Only  a  six-year  contract." 

Mag,  you  should  have  seen  'em  jump — both  of 
9em ;  the  little  man  with  vexation,  the  big  one  with 
surprise. 

A  contract!  Me? — Nance  Olden!  Why,  Mag, 
you  innocent,  of  course  I  hadn't.  Managers  don't 
give  six-year  contracts  to  girl-burglars  who've 
never  set  foot  on  the  stage. 

When  the  little  man  was  gone,  Obermuller  cor 
nered  me. 

"What's  your  game,  Olden?"  he  cried.  "You're 
too  deep  for  me ;  I  throw  up  my  hands.  Come ; 
what've  you  got  in  that  smart  little  head  of  yours  ? 
Are  you  holding  out  for  higher  stakes?  Do  you 
expect  him  to  buy  that  great  six-year  contract 
and  divvy  the  proceeds  with  me?  Because  he  will 
—when  once  they  get  their  eye  on  you,  they'll  have 
you;  and  to  turn  up  your  nose  at  their  offer  io  just 
the  way  to  make  them  itch  for  you.  But  how  the 
deuce  did  you  find  it  out?  And  where  do  you  get 
your  nerve  from,  anyway?  A  little  beggar  like  you 
to  refuse  an  offer  from  the  T.  T.  and  sit  hatching 
your  schemes  on  your  little  old  'steen  dollars  a 
week!  .  .  .  It'll  have  to  be  twice  'steen, 
I  suppose?" 

130 


IN   THE   BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

"All  right,  just  as  you  say,"  I  laughed.  "But 
why  aren't  you  in  the  Trust,  Fred  Obermuller  ?" 

"Why  aren't  you  in  society,  Nance  ?" 

"Um! — well,  because  society's  prejudiced 
against  lifting,  but  the  Trust  isn't.  Do  you  know 
that's  a  great  graft,  Mr.  Obermuller — lifting 
wholesale?  Why  don't  you  get  in?" 

"Because  a  Trust  is  a  lot  of  sailors  on  a  raft  who 
keep  their  places  by  kicking  off  the  drowning 
hands  that  clutch  at  it.  Can  you  fancy  a  fellow 
like  Tausig  stooping  down  to  help  me  tenderly  on 
board  to  divide  the  pickings?" 

"No,  but  I  can  fancy  you  grappling  with  him 
till  he'd  be  glad  to  take  you  on  rather  than  be 
pulled  off  himself." 

"You'd  be  in  with  the  push,  would  you,  Olden,  if 
you  were  managing?"  he  asked  with  a  grin. 

"I'd  be  at  the  top,  wherever  that  was." 

"Then  why  the  deuce  didn't  you  jump  at  Tau- 
sig's  offer  ?  Were  you  really  crafty  enough — " 

"I  am  artiste,  Monsieur  Obermuller,"  I  guttur- 
aled  like  Mademoiselle  Picotte,  who  dances  on  the 
wire.  "I  moost  have  about  me  those  who  arre — 
who  arre  congeniale — " 


131 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"You  monkey !"  he  laughed.  "Then,  when  Tau« 
Big  comes  to  buy  your  contract — " 

"We'll  tell  him  to  go  to  thunder." 

Pie  laughed.  Say,  Mag,  that  big  fellow  is  like 
a  boy  when  he's  pleased.  I  guess  that's  what  makes 
it  such  fun  to  please  him. 

"And  I,  who  admired  your  business  sagacity  in 
holding  off,  Nance !"  he  said. 

"I  thought  you  admired  my  take-off  of  Made 
moiselle  Picotte." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  why  don't  you  make  use  of  it?  Take 
me  round  to  the  theaters  and  let  me  mimic  all  the 
swell  actors  and  actresses.  I've  got  more  chance 
with  you  than  with  that  Trust  gang.  They 
wouldn't  give  me  room  to  do  my  own  stunt ;  they'd 
make  me  fit  into  theirs.  But  you — " 

"But  me !  You  think  you  can  wind  me  round 
your  finger?" 

"Not— yet." 

He  chuckled.  I  thought  I  had  him  going.  I 
saw  Nance  Olden  spending  her  evenings  at  the  big 
Broadway  theaters,  when,  just  at  that  minute, 
Ginger,  the  call-boy,  burst  in  with  a  note. 

Say,  Mag,  I  wouldn't  like  to  get  that  man 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Obermuller  hopping  mad  at  me,  and  Nancy  Olden's 
no  coward,  either.  But  the  way  he  gritted  his  teeth 
at  that  note  and  the  devil  in  his  eyes  when  he  lifted 
them  from  it,  made  me  wronder  how  I'd  ever  dared 
be  facetious  with  him. 

I  got  up  to  go.  He'd  forgotten  me,  but  he 
looked  up  then. 

"That  was  a  great  suggestion  of  yours,  Olden,  to 
put  Lord  Gray  on  to  act  himself — great!"  His 
voice  shook,  he  was  so  angry. 

"Well!"  I  snapped.  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him 
see  that  a  big  man  raging  could  bluff  Nance  Olden, 

What  did  he  mean?  Why — just  this:  there 
was  Lord  Harold  Gray,  the  real  Lord  behind  the 
scenes,  bringing  the  Lady  who  wras  really  only  a 
chorus  girl  to  the  show  in  his  automobile;  helping 
her  dress  like  a  maid;  holding  her  box  of  jewels  as 
he  tagged  after  her  like  a  big  Newfoundland; 
^rnoking  his  one  cigarette  solemnly  and  admiringly 
while  she  was  on  the  stage;  poking  after  her  like  a 
tame  bear.  He's  a  funny  fellow,  that  Lord  Har 
old.  He's  a  Tom  Dorgan,  with  the  brains  and  the 
graft  and — and  the  brute,  too,  Mag,  washed  out 
of  him ;  a  Tom  Dorgan  that's  been  kept  dressed  in 
swagger  rlothes  all  his  life  and  living  at  top-notch 
133 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

big,  clean,  handsome,  stupid,  good-nature*^ 
overgrown  boy. 

Yes,  I'm  coming  to  it.  When  I'd  seen  him  go 
tagging  after  her  chippy  Ladyship  behind  the 
scenes  long  enough,  I  told  Obermuller  one  day  that 
it  was  absurd  to  send  the  mock  Lady  out  on  the 
boards  and  keep  the  live  Lord  hidden  behind.  He 
jumped  at  the  idea,  and  they  rigged  up  a  little  act 
for  the  two — the  Lord  and  the  Lady.  Gray  was 
furious  when  she  heard  of  it — their  making  use  of 
her  Lord  in  such  a  way — but  Lord  Harold  just 
swallowed  his  big  Adam's  apple  with  a  gulp  or  two, 
and  said: 

"  Ton  honor,  it's  a  blawsted  scheme,  you  know ; 
but  I'm  jolly  sure  I'd  make  a  bleddy  ass  of  my 
self.  I  cawn't  act,  you  know." 

The  ninny!  You  know  he  thinks  Gray  really 
can. 

But  Obermuller  explained  to  him  that  he  needn't 
act — just  be  himself  out  behind  the  wings,  and  lo! 
Lord  Harold  was  "chawmed." 

And  Gray? 

Why,  she  gave  in  at  last ;  pretended  to,  anyway 
"•-sliding  out  of  the  Charity  sketch,  and  rehears 
ing  the  thing  v/ilh  him,  and  all  that.  And — and 
134. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

do  you  know  what  she  did,  Mag?  (Xance  Olden 
may  be  pretty  mean,  but  she  wouldn't  do  a  trick 
like  that.)  She  waited  till  ten  minuter  before  time 
for  the  thing  to  be  put  on  and  then  threw  a  n't. 

"She's  so  ill,  her  delicate  Ladyship!  So  ill  she 
just  can't  go  on  this  evening!  Wonder  how  long 
she  thinks  such  an  excuse  will  keep  Lord  Harold 
off  when  I  want  him  on!"  growled  Obcrmuller, 
throwing  her  note  over  to  me.  He'd  have  liked 
to  throw  it  at  me  if  it'd  been  heavy  enough  to  hurt; 
he  was  so  thumping  mad. 

You  see,  there  it  was  on  the  program : 

THE  CLEVER  SKETCH  ENTITLED 
THEATRICAL  ARISTOCRACY, 

The  Duke  of  Portmanteau. . .  .Lord  Harold  Gray. 
The  Duchess Lady  Gray. 

The  celebrated  Gray  jewels,  including  the  great 
Rose  Diamond,  will  be  worn  by  Lady  Gray  in  thi> 
number. 

No  wonder  Obermuller  was  raging.     I  looked  at 
him.     You  don't  like  to  tackle  a  fellow  like  that 
135 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

when  he's  dancing  hot.  And  yet  you  ache  to  help 
him  and — yes,  yourself. 

"Lord  Harold's  here  yet,  and  the  jewels?"  I 
asked. 

He  gave  a  short  nod.  He  was  thinking.  But 
so  was  I. 

"Then  all  he  wants  is  a  Lady?" 

"That's  all,"  he  said  sarcastically. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  me?" 

He  gasped. 

"There:s  nothing  the  matter  with  your  nerve, 
Olden." 

"Thank  you,  so  much."  It  was  the  way  Gray 
says  it  when  she  tries  to  have  an  English  accent. 
"Dress  me  up,  Fred  Obermuller,  in  Gray's  new  silk 
gown  and  the  Gray  jewels,  and  you'd  never — " 

"I'd  never  set  eyes  on  you  again." 

"You'd  never  know,  if  you  were  in  the  audi 
ence,  that  it  wasn't  Gray  herself.  I  can  take  her  off 
to  the  life,  and  if  the  prompter'll  stand  by — " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  full  minute. 

"Try  it,  Olden,"  he  said. 

I  did.  I  flew  to  Gray's  dressing-room.  She'd 
gone  home  deathly  ill,  of  course.  They  gave  me  the 
best  seamstress  in  the  place.  She  let  out  the  waist 
136 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

a  bit  and  pulled  over  the  lace  to  cover  it.  I  got 
into  that  mass  of  silk  and  lace — oh,  silk  on  silk,  and 
Nance  Olden  inside !  Beryl  Blackburn  did  my  hair, 
and  Grace  Weston  put  on  my  slippers.  Topham, 
himself,  hung  me  with  those  gorgeous  shining  dia 
monds  and  pearls  and  emeralds,  till  I  felt  like  an 
idol  loaded  with  booty.  There  were  so  many  stand 
ing  round  me,  rigging  me  up,  that  I  didn't  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  mirror  till  the  second  before  Ginger 
called  me.  But  in  that  second — in  that  second, 
Mag  Monahan,  I  saw  a  fairy  with  blazing  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes,  with  a  diamond  coronet  in  her 
brown  hair,  puffed  high,  and  pearls  on  her  bare 
neck  and  arms,  and  emeralds  over  the  waist,  and 
rubies  and  pearls  on  her  fingers,  and  sprays  of  dia 
monds  like  frost  on  the  lace  of  her  skirt,  and  dia 
mond  buckles  on  her  very  slippers,  and  the  rose  dia 
mond,  like  a  sun,  outshining  all  the  rest ;  and — and, 
Mag,  it  was  me ! 

How  did  it  go?  Well,  wouldn't  it  make  you 
think  you  were  a  Lady,  sure  enough,  if  you  couldn't 
move  without  that  lace  train  billowing  after  you ; 
without  being  dazzled  with  diamond-shine ;  without 
a  truly  Lord  tagging  after  you? 

He  kept  his  head,  Lord  Harold  did — even  if  it 
137 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Is  a  mutton-head.  That  helped  me  at  first.  He 
was  so  cold,  so  stupid,  so  slow,  so  good-tempered — • 
so  just  himself.  And  after  the  first  plunge — 

I  tell  you,  Mag  Monahan,  there's  one  thing 
that's  stronger  than  wine  to  a  woman — -it's  being 
beautiful.  Oh!  And  I  was  beautiful.  I  knew  it 
before  I  got  that  quick  hush,  with  the  full  ap 
plause  after  it.  And  because  I  was  beautiful,  I 
got  saucy,  and  then  calm,  and  then  I  caught  Fred 
Obermuller's  voice — he  had  taken  the  book  from 
the  prompter  and  stood  there  himself — and  after 
that  it  was  easy  sailing. 

He  was  there  yet  when  the  act  was  over,  and  I 
trailed  out,  followed  by  my  Lord.  He  let  the 
prompt-book  fall  from  his  hands  and  reached  them 
both  out  to  me. 

I  flirted  my  jeweled  fan  at  him  and  swept  him 
a  courtesy. 

Cool?  No,  I  wasn't.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  was 
daffy  with  the  sight  of  me  in  all  that  glory,  and  I 
knew  it. 

"Nance,"  he  whispered,  "you  wonderful  girl,  if 
I  didn't  know  about  that  little  thief  up  at  the 
Bronsonia  I'd — I'd  marry  you  alive,  just  for  the 
fun  of  piling  pretty  things  on  you." 
168 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"The  deuce  you  would !"  I  sailed  past  him,  with 
Topham  and  my  Lord  in  my  wake. 

They  didn't  leave  me  till  they'd  stripped  me 
clean.  I  felt  like  a  Christmas  tree  the  day  after. 
But,  somehow,  I  didn't  care. 


VIIL 

Is  that  you,  Mag?  Well,  it's  about  time  you 
came  home  to  look  after  me.  Fine  chaperon  you 
make,  Miss  Monahan!  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  the 
very  day  we  took  this  flat  what  a  chaperon  was,  and 
that  you'd  have  to  be  mine?  Imagine  Nancy 
Olden  without  a  chaperon —  Shocking! 

No,  'tisn't  late.  Sit  down,  Maggie,  there,  and 
let  me  get  the  stool  and  talk  to  you.  Think  of  us 
two — Cruelty  girls,  both  of  us — two  mangy  kit 
tens  deserted  by  the  old  cats  in  a  city's  alleys,  and 
left  mewing  with  cold  and  hunger  and  dirt,  out  in 
the  wet — think  of  us  two  in  our  own  flat,  Mag ! 

I  say,  it  makes  me  proud  of  us!  There  are 
times  when  I  look  at  every  stick  of  furniture  we 
own,  and  I  try  to  pretend  to  it  all  that  I'm  used  to 
a  decent  roof  over  my  head,  and  a  dining-room5 
kitchen,  parlor,  bedroom  and  bath.  Oh,  and  I  for 
got  the  telephone  the  other  tenant  left  here  till  its 
lease  is  up.  But  at  other  times  I  stand  here  in  the 
middle  of  it  and  cry  out  to  it,  in  my  heart : 
140 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Look  at  me,  Nancy  Olden,  a  householder,  a 
rent -payer,  the  head  of  the  family,  even  if  it's  only 
a  family  of  two  and  the  other  one  Mag!  Look  at 
me,  with  my  name  in  the  directory,  a-paying 
inilk  bills  and  meat  bills  and  bread  bills!  Look  at 
me  with  a  place  of  my  own,  where  nobody's  right's 
greater  than  my  own ;  where  no  one  has  a  right  but 
me  and  Mag ;  a  place  where — where  there's  nothing 
to  hide  from  the  police !" 

There's  the  rub,  Mag,  as  Hamlet  says — (I  went 
to  see  it  the  other  night,  so  that  I  could  take  off 
the  Ophelia — she  used  to  be  a  good  mimic  herself, 
before  she  tried  to  be  a  leading  lady.)  It  spoils  you, 
this  sense  of  safeness  that  goes  with  the  honesty 
graft.  You  lose  the  quickness  of  the  hunter  and 
the  nerve  of  the  hunted.  And — worse — you  lose 
your  taste  for  the  old  risky  life.  You  grow  proud 
and  fat,  and  you  love  every  stick  in  the  dear,  quiet 
little  place  that's  your  home — your  own  home. 
You  love  it  so  that  you'd  be  ashamed  to  sneak 
round  where  it  could  see  you — you  who'd  always 
walked  upright  before  it  with  the  step  of  the  mis 
tress  ;  with  nothing  in  the  world  to  be  ashamed  of ; 
nothing  to  prevent  your  staring  each  honest  dish- 
pan  in  the  face ! 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

And,  Mag,  you  try — if  you're  me — to  fit  Tom 
Dorgan  in  here — Tom  Dorgan  in  stripes  and  sav 
age  sulks  still — all  these  months — kept  away  from 
the  world,  even  the  world  behind  bars!  Maggie, 
don't  you  wish  Tom  was  a  ventriloquist  or — or  an 
acrobat  or — but  this  isn't  what  I  had  to  tell  youc 

Do  you  know  what  a  society  entertainer  is,  Miss 
Monahan?  No?  Well,  look  at  me.  Yes,  I'm  one. 
Miss  Nance  Olden,  whose  services  are  worth  fifty 
dollars  a  night — at  least,  they  were  one  night. 

Ginger  brought  me  the  note  that  made  me  a 
society  entertainer.  It  was  from  a  Mrs.  Paul  B. 
Gates,  who  had  been  "charmed  by  your  clever  im- 
personations,  Miss  Olden,  and  write  to  know  if  you 
have  the  leisure  to  entertain  some  friends  at  my 
house  on  Thursday  of  this  week." 

Had  I  the  leisure- — well,  rather!  I  showed  the 
note  to  Gray,  just  to  make  her  jealous.  (Oh,  yes> 
she  goes  on  all  right  in  the  act  with  Lord  Harold 
every  night.  Catch  her  letting  me  wear  those 
things  of  hers  twice!)  Well,  she  just  turned  up 
her  nose. 

"Of  course,  you  won't  accept?"  she  said* 

"Of  course,  I  will" 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Oh !  I  only  thought  you'd  feel  as  I  should  about 
appearing  before  a  lot  of  snobs,  who'll  treat  you 
like  a  servant  and — " 

"Who'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort  and  who'll  pay 
you  well  for  it,"  put  in  Obermuller.  He  had  come 
up  and  was  reading  the  note  I  had  handed  to  him. 
"You  just  say  yes,  Nance,"  he  went  on,  after  Gray 
had  bounced  off  to  her  dressing-room.  "It  isn't 
such  a  bad  graft  and — and  this  is  just  between  us 
two,  mind — that  little  beggar,  Tausig,  has  begun 
his  tricks  since  you  turned  his  offer  down.  They 
can  make  things  hot  for  me,  and  if  they  do,  it 
won't  be  so  bad  for  you  to  go  in  for  this  sort  of 
thing — unless  you  go  over  to  the  Trust — " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  this  thing  will  be  an  ad  for  you,  besides, 
- — if  the  papers  can  be  got  to  notice  it.  They're 
coy  with  their  notices,  confound  them,  since  Tausig 
let  them  know  that  big  Trust  ads  don't  appear  in 
the  same  papers  that  boom  anti-Trust  shows !" 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  stand  it,  Mr.  O  ?" 

"Just  as  long  as  I  can't  help  myself ;  not  a  min- 
ate  longer." 

"There  ought  to  be  a  way — some  way — " 

"Yes,  there  ought,  but  there  isn't.  They've  got 
143 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

things  down  to  a  fine  point,  and  the  fellow  they 
don't  fear  has  got  to  fear  them.  .  .  .  I'll  put 
your  number  early  to-night,  so  that  you  can  get 
off  by  nine.  Good  luck,  Nance." 

At  nine,  then,  behold  Nancy  Olden  in  her  white 
muslin  dress,  long  sleeved  and  high-necked,  and 
just  to  her  shoe-tops,  with  a  big  white  muslin  sash 
around  her  waist.  Oh,  she's  no  baby,  is  Nance, 
but  she  looks  like  one  in  this  rig  with  her  short  hair 
— or  rather,  like  a  school-girl;  which  makes  the 
stunts  she  does  in  mimicking  the  corkers  of  the 
profession  all  the  more  surprising. 

"We're  just  a  little  party,"  said  Mrs.  Paul 
Gates,  coming  into  the  bedroom  where  I  was  taking 
off  my  wraps.  "And  I'm  so  glad  you  could  come, 
for  my  principal  guest,  Mr.  Latimer,  is  an  invalid, 
who  used  to  love  the  theaters,  but  hasn't  been  to  one 
since  his  attack  many  years  ago.  I  count  on  your 
giving  him,  in  a  way,  a  condensed  history  in  action 
of  what  is  going  on  on  the  stage." 

I  told  her  I  would.  But  I  didn't  just  know 
what  I  was  saying.  Think  of  Latimer  there,  Mag 
gie,  and  think  of  our  last  meeting!  It  made  me 
tremble.  Not  that  I  fancied  for  a  moment  he'd 
betray  me.  The  man  that  helps  you  twice  don't 
144? 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

hurt  you  the  third  time.  No,  it  wasn't  that;  it 
was  only  that  I  longed  to  do  well — well  before  him, 
so  that — 

And  then  I  found  myself  in  an  alcove  off  the 
parlors,  separated  from  them  by  heavy  curtains. 
It  was  such  a  pretty  little  red  bower.  Right  be 
hind  me  was  the  red  of  the  Turkish  drapery  of  a 
cozy  corner,  and  just  as  I  took  my  place  under  the 
great  chandelier,  the  servants  pulled  the  curtains 
apart  and  the  lights  went  out  in  the  parlors. 

In  that  minute  I  got  it,  Mag — yes,  stage  fright. 
Got  it  bad.  I  suppose  it  was  coming  to  me,  but 
Lordy!  I  hadn't  ever  known  before  what  it  was. 
I  could  see  the  black  of  the  men's  clothes  in  the 
long  parlors  in  front  of  me,  and  the  white  of  the 
women's  necks  and  arms.  There  were  soft  ends  of 
talk  trailing  after  the  first  silence,  and  everything 
was  so  strange  that  I  seemed  to  hear  two  men's 
voices  which  sounded  familiar — Latimer's  silken 
voice,  and  another,  a  heavy,  coarse  bass,  that  was 
the  last  to  be  quieted. 

I  fancied  that  when  that  last  voice  should  stop 

I  could  begin,  but  all  at  once  my  mind  seemed  to 

turn  a  somersault,  and,  instead  of  looking  out  upon 

them,  I  seemed  to  be  looking  in  on  myself — to  see 

145 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

a  white-faced  little  girl  in  a  white  dress,  standing 
alone  under  a  blaze  of  light  in  a  glare  of  red,  gaz 
ing  fearfully  at  this  queer,  new  audience. 

Fail?  Me?  Not  Nancy,  Maggie.  I  just  took 
me  by  the  shoulders. 

"Nancy  Olden,  you  little  thief!"  I  cried  to  me 
Inside  of  me.  "How  dare  you!  I'd  rather  you'd 
steal  the  silver  on  this  woman's  dressing-table  than 
che-at  her  out  of  what  she  expects  and  what's  com 
ing  to  her." 

Nance  really  didn't  dare.    So  she  began. 

The  first  one  was  bad.  I  gave  'em  Duse's  Fran- 
cesca.  You've  never  heard  the  wailing  music  in  that 
woman's  voice  when  she  says : 

"There  is  no  escape,  Smaragdi.  You  have  said  it; 
The  shadow  is  a  glass  to  me,  and  God 
Lets  me  be  lost" 

I  gave  them  Duse  just  to  show  them  how  swell  I 
was  myself ;  which  shows  what  a  ninny  I  was.  The 
thing  the  world  loves  is  the  opposite  of  what  it  is< 
The  pat — pat — pat  of  their  gloves  came  in  to  me 
when  I  got  through.  They  were  too  polite  to  hisst 
But  it  wasn't  necessary.  I  was  hissing  myself.  In* 
side  of  me  there  was  a  long,  nasty  hiss-ss-ss ! 
146 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  a  failure 
with  Latimer  listening,  though  out  there  in  that 
queer  half-light  I  couldn't  see  him  at  all,  but  could 
only  make  out  the  couch  where  I  knew  he  must  be 
lying. 

I  just  jumped  into  something  else  to  retrieve 
myself.  I  can  do  Carter's  Du  Barry  to  the 
Queen's  taste,  Maggie.  That  rotten  voice  of  hers, 
like  Mother  Douty's,  but  stronger  and  surer;  that 
rocky  old  face  pretending  to  look  young  and  beau 
tiful  inside  that  talented  red  hair  of  hers;  that 
whining  "Denny !  Denny !"  she  squawks  out  every 
other  minute.  Oh,  I  can  do  Du  Barry  all  right ! 

They  thought  I  could,  too,  those  black  and 
white  shadows  out  there  on  the  other  side  of  the 
velvet  curtains.  But  I  cared  less  for  what  they 
thought  than  for  the  fact  that  I  had  drowned  that 
sputtering  hiss-ss-ss  inside  of  me,  and  that  Lati 
mer  was  among  them. 

I  gave  them  Warfield,  then;  I  was  always  good 
at  taking  off  the  sheenies  in  the  alley  behind  the 
Cruelty — remember?  I  gave  them  that  little 
pinch-nosed  Maude  Adams,  and  dry,  corking  little 
Mrs.  Fiske,  and  Henry  Miller  when  he  smooth* 


147 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

'down  his  white  breeches  lovingly  and  sings  Sally 
in  our  Alley,  and  strutting  old  Mansfield,  and — 

Say,  isn't  it  funny,  Mag,  that  I've  seen  'em  all 
and  know  all  they  can  do?  They've  been  my  college 
education,  that  crowd.  Not  a  bad  one,  either, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  what  I  wanted  from  it. 

They  pulled  the  curtains  down  at  the  end  and 
I  went  back  to  the  bedroom.  I  had  my  hat  and 
jacket  on  when  Mrs.  Gates  and  some  of  the 
younger  ladies  came  to  see  me  there,  but  I  caught 
no  glimpse  of  Latimer.  You'd  think — wouldn't 
you — that  he'd  have  made  an  opportunity  to  say 
just  one  nice  word  to  me  in  that  easy,  soft  voice  of 
his?  I  tried  to  believe  that  perhaps  he  hadn't 
really  seen  me,  lying  down,  as  he  must  have  been, 
or  that  he  hadn't  recognized  me,  but  I  knew  that  I 
couldn't  make  myself  believe  that ;  and  the  lack  of 
just  that  word  from  him  spoiled  all  my  satisfaction 
with  myself,  and  I  walked  out  with  Mrs.  Gates 
through  the  hall  and  past  the  dining-room  feeling 
as  hurt  as  though  I'd  deserved  that  a  man  like  Lati 
mer  should  notice  me. 

The  dining-room  was  all  lighted,  but  empty — the 
colored,  shaded  candlesticks  glowing  down  on  the 
cut  glass  and  silver,  on  delicate  china  and  flowers, 
148 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  hadn't  come  out  to  sup 
per  yet;  at  least,  only  one  was  there.  He  was 
standing  with  his  back  to  me,  before  the  sideboard, 
pouring  out  a  glass  of  something  from  a  decanter. 
He  turned  at  the  rustle  of  my  starched  skirt,  and, 
as  I  passed  the  door,  he  saw  me.  I  saw  him,  ioo, 
and  hurried  away. 

Yes,  I  knew  him.    Just  you  wait. 

I  got  home  here  earlier  than  I'd  expected,  and 
I'd  just  got  off  my  hat  and  jacket  and  put  away 
that  snug  little  check  when  there  came  a  ring  at 
the  bell. 

I  thought  it  was  you,  Mag — that  you'd  forgot 
ten  your  key.  I  was  so  sure  of  it  that  I  pulled  the 
door  open  wide  with  a  flourish  and — 

And  admitted — Edward  ! 

Yes,  Edward,  husband  of  the  Dowager.  The 
same  red-faced,  big-necked  old  fellow,  husky- 
voiced  with  whisky  now,  just  as  he  was  before.  He 
must  have  been  keeping  it  up  steadily  ever  since 
the  day  out  in  the  country  when  Tom  lifted  hi? 
watch.  It'll  take  more  than  one  lost  watch  to  cure 
Edward. 

"I — followed  you  home,  Miss  Murieson,"  he 
said,  grabbing  me  by  the  hand  and  pushing  the 
149 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

door  closed  behind  him.  "Or  is  it  Miss  Murieson? 
Which  is  your  stage  name,  and  which  your  real 
one?  And  have  you  really  learned  to  remember  it? 
For  my  part,  any  old  name  will  smell  as  sweet,  now 
that  I'm  close  to  the  rose." 

I  jerked  my  hand  away  from  him. 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  call,"  I  said,  haughty  as 
the  Dowager  herself  was  when  first  I  saw  her  in  her 
gorgeous  parlor,  the  Bishop's  card  in  her  hand. 

"No,  I  noticed  that,"  he  roared  jovially.  "You 
skinned  out  the  front  door  the  moment  you  saw  me. 
All  that  was  left  to  me  was  to  skin  after." 

"Why?" 

"Why!"  He  slapped  his  leg  as  though  he'd 
heard  the  best  joke  in  the  world.  "To  renew  our 
acquaintance,  of  course.  To  ask  you  if  you 
wouldn't  like  me  to  buy  you  a  red  coat  and  hat 
like  the  one  you  left  behind  you  that  day  over  in 
Philadelphia,  when  you  cut  your  visit  so  short.  To 
insist  upon  my  privilege  of  relationship.  To  call 
that  wink  you  ga.ve  me  in  the  hall  that  day,  you 
little  devil.  Now,  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I 
say,  let's  be  friends ;  won't  you  ?" 

"Not  for  a  red  coat  trimmed  with  chinchilla,"  I 
cried. 

150 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

He  got  between  me  and  the  door. 

"Prices  gone  up?"  he  inquired  pleasantly. 
"Who's  bulling  the  stock?" 

"Never  you  mind,  so  long  as  his  name  isn't  Ram 
say." 

"But  why  shouldn't  his  name  be  Ramsay?"  he 
cooed. 

"Just  because  it  isn't.  I'm  expecting  a  friend. 
Hadn't  you  better  go  home  to  Mrs.  Dowager  Dia 
monds  ?" 

"Bully !  Is  that  what  you  call  her?  No,  I'll 
stay  and  meet  your  friend." 

"Better  not." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid.  Does  he  know  as  much 
about  you  as  I  do?" 

"More." 

"About  your  weakness  for  other  girls'  coats?" 

"Yes." 

You  do  know  it  all,  don't  you?  And  yet  you 
care  for  me,  Maggie  Monahan  f 

I  retreated  before  him  into  the  dining-room. 
What  in  the  world  to  do  to  get  rid  of  him ! 

"I  think  you'd  better  go  home,  Mr.  Ramsay,"  I 
said  again,  decidedly.     "If  you  don't,  I'll  hav«  to 
call  the  janitor  to  put  you  out." 
151 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Call,  sweetheart.  He'll  put  you  out  with  me; 
for  I'll  tell  him  a  thing  or  two  about  you,  and 
we'll  go  and  find  a  better  place  than  this.  Stock 
can't  be  quoted  so  high,  after  all,  if  this  is  the  best 
prospectus  your  friend  can  put  up.  .  .  .  Why 
don't  you  call?" 

I  looked  at  him.     I  was  thinking. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

"I've  changed  my  mind." 

Oh,  Mag,  Mag,  did  you  ever  see  the  man  —  ugly 
as  a  cannibal  he  may  be  and  old  as  the  cannibal's 
great-grandfather  —  that  couldn't  be  persuaded  he 
was  a  lady-killer? 

His  manner  changed  altogether.  He  plumped 
down  on  the  lounge  and  patted  the  place  beside 
him  invitingly,  giving  me  a  wink  that  was  deadly. 

"But,  Mrs.  Dowager!"  I  exclaimed  coquettishly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  little  one  !  She  hasn't  even 
missed  me  yet.  When  she's  playing  Bridge  she 
forgets  even  to  be  jealous." 

"Playing  Bridge,"  I  murmured  sweetly,  "'way 
off  in  Philadelphia,  while  you,  you  naughty 
man;  —  " 

Oh,  he  loved  that  ! 


152 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Not  so  naughty  as — as  I'd  like  to  be,"  he  bel 
lowed,  heavily  witty.  "And  she  isn't  'way  off  in 
Philadelphia  either.  She's  just  round  the  corner 
at  Mrs.  Gates',  and — what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing — nothing.    Did  she  recognize  me?" 

"Oh,  that's  what  scared  you,  is  it?  She  didn't 
recognize  you.  Neither  did  I,  till  I  got  that  second 
glimpse  of  you  with  your  hat  and  jacket  on.  But 
even  if  she  had — ho !  ho !  ho !  I  say ;  do  you  know, 
you  couldn't  convince  the  Bishop  and  Henrietta, 
if  you'd  talk  till  doomsday,  that  that  red  coat  and 
hat  we  advertised  weren't  taken  by  a  little  girl 
that  was  daffy.  Fact;  I  swear  it!  They  admit 
you  took  the  coat,  you  little  witch,  but  it  was  when 
you  were  out  of  your  mind — of  course — of  course ! 
'The  very  fact  that  she  left  the  coat  behind  her 
and  took  nothing  else  from  the  house  shows  a  mind 
diseased,'  insisted  Henrietta.  Of  course — of  course ! 
'And  her  coming  for  no  reason  at  all  to  your 
house,'  adds  the  Bishop.  .  .  .  Say,  what  was 
the  reason?" 

Maggie,  I'll  tell  you  a  hard  thing:  it  isn't  when 
people  think  worse  of  you  than  you  are,  but  better, 
that  you  feel  most  uncomfortable.  I  got  pale  and 


153 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

sick  inside  of  me  at  the  thought  of  my  poor  little 
Bishop.  I  loved  him  for  believing  me  straight 
and — 

"I've  been  dying  of  curiosity  to  know  what  was 
m  your  wise  little  head  that  day,"  he  went  on. 
"Oh,  it  was  wise  all  right ;  that  wink  you  gave  me 
was  perfectly  sane ;  there  was  method  in  that  mad 
ness  of  yours." 

"I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Ramsay,"  I  said  sweetly, 
"at  supper." 

"Supper!" 

"Yes,  the  supper  you're  going  to  get  for  me." 

His  bellowing  laughter  filled  the  place.  Mag 
gie,  our  little  flat  and  our  few  things  don't  go  well 
with  sounds  like  that. 

"Oh,  you're  all  alike,  you  women!"  he  roared. 
"All  right,  supper  it  is.  Where  shall  we  go — Rec 
tor's?" 

I  pouted. 

"It's  so  much  more  cozy  right  here,"  I  said.  "I'll 
telephone.  There's  Brophy's,  just  round  the  cor 
ner,  and  they  send  in  the  loveliest  things." 

"Oh,  they  do!    Well,  tell  'em  to  begin  sending." 

I  thought  he'd  follow  me  out  in  the  hall  to  the 
'phone,  but  he  was  having  some  trouble  in  pulling 
154 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

out  liis  purse — to  count  out  his  money,  I  suppose, 
I  got  Central  and  asked  for  the  number.  Oh,  yes, 
I  knew  it  all  right ;  I  had  called  up  that  same  num 
ber  once,  already,  to-day.  Brophy's?  Why,  Mag 
gie  Monahan,  you  ought  to  know  there's  no  Bro 
phy's.  At  least  none  that  I  ever  heard  about. 

With  my  hand  over  the  mouthpiece,  so  that  no 
body  heard  but  Edward,  I  ordered  a  supper  fit  for 
a  king — or  a  chorus  girl!  What  didn't  I  order! 
Champagne,  broiled  lobster,  crab  meat,  stuffed  pi- 
mentoes,  kirschkaffee — everything  I'd  ever  heard 
Beryl  Blackburn  tell  about. 

"Say,  say,"  interrupted  Edward,  coming  out 
after  me.  "That's  enough  of  that  stuff.  Tell  him 
to  send  in  a  Scotch  and  soda  and — what — " 

For  at  that  moment  tht  connection  was  made 
and  I  cut  in  sweetly  with : 

"Mrs.  Edward  Ramsay? — just  a  minute." 

Mag,  you  should  have  seen  the  man's  face!  It 
was  red,  it  was  white ;  it  was  furious,  it  was  fright 
ened. 

I  put  my  hand  a  moment  over  the  mouthpiece 

and  turned  on  him  then.     "I've  got  her  on  the 

'phone  at  Mrs.  Gates'  house.     Shall  I  tell  your 

wife  where  you   are,   Edward?     .     .     .     Just   a 

155 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

moment,  Mrs.  Ramsay,  hold  the  wire;  some  ont 
wants  to  speak  with  you." 

"You  little  devil!"  His  voice  was  thick  with 
rage. 

"Yes,  you  called  me  that  some  time  ago,  but  not 
in  that  tone.  Quick,  now — the  door  or  ... 
Waiting,  Mrs.  Ramsay?" 

He  moved  toward  the  door. 

"How'll  I  know  you  won't  tell  her  when  I'm 
gone?"  he  growled. 

"Merely  by  my  saying  that  I  won't,"  I  answered 
curtly.  "You're  in  no  position  to  dictate  terms;  I 
am." 

But  I  could,  without  leaving  the  'phone,  latch 
the  chain  on  the  door  behind  him,  leaving  it  half 
open.  So  he  must  have  heard  the  rest. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ramsay,  waiting?"  I  croaked  like  th« 
driest  kind  of  hello-girl.  "I  was  mistaken.  It  was 
a  message  left  to  be  delivered  to  you — not  some 
one  wanting  to  speak  with  you.  Who  am  I?  Why, 
this  is  Central.  Here  is  the  message :  'Will  be  with 
you  in  half  an  hour.'  Signed  'Edward.'  .  .  <, 
Yes,  that's  right.  Thank  you.  Good  night." 

I  hung  up,  gave  the  door  a  touch  that  shut  it 
in  his  face  and  went  back  into  the  dining-room  tc 
156 


IN   THE   BISHOr'S    CARRIAGE 

throw  open  the  windows.  The  place  smelled  of 
alcohol ;  the  moral  atmosphere  left  behind  by  that 
bad  old  man  sickened  me. 

I  leaned  out  and  looked  at  the  stars  and  tried  to 
think  of  something  sweet  and  wholesome  and 
strengthening. 

"Ah,  Nance,"  I  cried  to  myself  with  a  sob — I 
had  pretended  to  take  it  lightly  enough  when  he 
was  here,  but  now — "if  you  had  heard  of  a  girl 
who,  like  yourself  this  evening,  unexpectedly  met 
two  men  she  had  known,  and  the  good  man  ignored 
her  and  the  bad  one  followed  her — oh,  Nancy — 
what  sort  of  girl  would  you  think  she  was  at  heart  ? 
What  sort  of  hope  could  you  imagine  her  treasur 
ing  for  her  own  future  ?  And  what  sort  of  signifi 
cance  would  you  attach  to — " 

And  just  then  the  bell  rang  again. 

This  time  I  was  sure  it  was  you.  And,  O  Mag 
gie,  I  ran  to  the  door  eager  for  the  touch  of  your 
hand  and  the  look  in  your  eyes.  I  was  afraid  to  be 
alone  with  my  own  thoughts.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
conclusion  to  which  they  were  leading  me.  Maggie, 
if  ever  a  girl  needed  comfort  and  encouragement 
and  heartening,  I  did  then. 

And  I  got  it,  dear. 

157 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

For  there  was  a  man  at  the  door,  with  a  great 
basket  of  azaleas — pale,  pink  earth-stars  they  are, 
the  sweet,  innocent  things — and  a  letter  for  me, 
Here  it  is.  Let  me  read  it  to  you. 

"My  dear  Miss  Omar: 

Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  Luckless  Pot,  marred 
in  the  making,  that  had  the  luck  to  be  of  service  to 
a  Pipkin. 

It  was  a  saucy  Pipkin,  though  a  very  winning 
one,  and  it  had  all  the  health  and  strength  the 
poor  Pot  lacked — physically.  Morally — morally, 
that  young  Pipkin  was  in  a  most  unwholesome  con 
dition.  Already  its  fair,  smooth  surface  was 
scratched  and  fouled.  It  was  unmindful  of  the 
treasure  of  good  it  contained,  and  its  responsibility 
to  keep  that  good  intact.  And  it  seemed  destined 
to  crash  itself  to  pieces  among  pots  of  baser  metal. 

What  the  Luckless  Pot  did  was  little — being  ig 
norant  of  the  art  by  which  diamonds  may  be  at 
tained  easily  and  honestly — but  it  gave  the  little 
Pipkin  a  chance. 

What  the  Pipkin  did  with  that  chance  the  Pot 
learned  to-night,  with  such  pleasure  and  satisfac- 


158 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

tion  as  made  it  impossible  for  him  not  to  share  it 
with  her.  So  while  he  sent  Burnett  out  to  the  con 
servatory  to  cut  azaleas,  he  wrote  her  a  note  to  try 
to  convey  to  her  what  he  felt  when,  in  that  nicely 
polished,  neatly  decorated  and  self-respecting  Ves 
sel  on  exhibition  in  Mrs.  Gates'  red  room,  he  recog 
nized  the  poor  little  Pipkin  of  other  days. 

The  Pot,  as  you  know,  was  a  sort  of  stranded 
bit  of  clay  that  had  never  filled  the  use  for  which 
pots  are  created.  He  had  little  human  to  interest 
him.  The  fate  of  the  Pipkin,  therefore,  he  had 
often  pondered  on ;  and,  in  spite  of  improbabil 
ities,  had  had  faith  in  a  certain  quality  of  brave  sin 
cerity  the  little  thing  showed ;  a  quality  that  shone 
through  acquired  faults  like  a  star  in  a  murky  sky. 

This  justification  of  his  faith  in  the  Pipkin  may 
seem  a  small  matter  to  make  so  much  of.  And  yet 
the  Pot — that  sleeps  not  well  o'  nights,  as  is  the 
case  with  damaged  pots — will  take  to  bed  with  him 
to-night  a  pretty,  pleasant  thought  due  just  to  this. 

But  do  not  think  the  Pot  an  idealist.  If  he 
were,  he  might  have  been  tempted  to  mistake  the 
Pipkin  for  a  statelier,  more  pretentious  Vessel — a 
Vase,  say,  all  graceful  curves  and  embossed  sides, 


159 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

but  shallow,  perhaps,  possibly  lacking  breadth.  No, 
the  Pipkin  is  a  pipkin,  made  of  common  clay — 
even  though  it  has  the  uncommon  sweetness  and 
strength  to  overcome  the  tendencies  of  clay — and 
fashioned  for  those  common  uses  of  life,  deprivation 
of  which  to  anything  that  comes  from  the  Potter's 
hands  is  the  most  enduring,  the  most  uncommon 
sorrow. 

O  pretty  little  Pipkin,  thank  the  Potter,  who 
made  you  as  you  are,  as  you  will  be — a  thing  that 
can  cheer  arid  stay  men's  souls  by  ministering  to 
the  human  needs  of  them.  For  you,  be  sure,  the 
Potter's  'a  good  fellow  and  'twill  all  be  well.' 

For  the  Pot — he  sails  shortly,  or  rather,  he  is  to 
be  carted  abroad  by  some  optimistic  friends  whose 
hopes  he  does  not  share — to  a  celebrated  repair 
shop  for  damaged  pots.  Whether  he  shall  return, 
patched  and  mended  into  temporary  semblance  of 
a  useful  Vessel;  whether  he  shall  continue  to  be 
merely  the  same  old  Luckless  Pot,  or  whether  he 
|shall  return  at  all,  O  Pipkin,  does  not  matter  much. 

But  it  has  been  well  that,  before  we  two  behind 
the  veil  had  passed,  we  met  again,  and  you  left  me 
such  a  fragrant  memory.  LATIMEE." 


160 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

0  Maggie,  Maggie,  some  day  I  hope  to  see 
that  man  and  tell  him  how  sorely  the  Pipkin  needed 
the  Pot's  letter! 


IX. 


It's  all  come  so  quick,  Maggie,  and  it  was  over  so 
soon  that  I  hardly  remember  the  beginning. 

Nobody  on  earth  could  have  expected  it  less  than 
I,  when  I  came  off  in  the  afternoon.  I  don't  know 
what  I  was  thinking  of  as  I  came  into  my  dressing- 
room,  that  used  to  be  Gray's — the  sight  of  him 
seemed  to  cut  me  off  from  myself  as  with  a  knife — 
but  it  wasn't  of  him. 

It  may  have  been  that  I  was  chuckling  to  myself 
at  the  thought  of  Nancy  Olden  with  a  dressing- 
room  all  to  herself.  I  can't  ever  quite  get  used  to 
that,  you  know,  though  I  sail  around  there  with  all 
the  airs  of  the  leading  lady.  Sometimes  I  see  a 
twinkle  in  Fred  Obermuller's  eye  when  I  catch  him 
watching  me,  and  goodness  knows  he's  been  glum 
enough  of  late,  but  it  wasn't — 

Yes,  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  but — it's  rattled  me  a 
bit,  Maggie.  I'm  so — so  sorry,  and  a  little — oh, 
just  a  little,  little  bit  glad! 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I'd  slammed  the  door  behind  me — the  old  place 
is  out  of  repair  and  the  door  won't  shut  except  with 
a  bang — and  I  had  just  squatted  down  on  the  floor 
to  unbutton  my  high  shoes,  when  I  noticed  the 
chintz  curtains  in  front  of  the  high  dressing-box 
waver.  They  must  have  moved  just  like  that  when 
I  was  behind  them  months — it  seems  years — ago. 
But,  you  see,  Topham  had  never  served  an  appren 
ticeship  behind  curtains,  so  he  didn't  suspect. 

"Lordy,  Nancy,"  I  laughed  to  myself,  "some  one 
thinks  you've  got  a  rose  diamond  and — " 

And  at  that  moment  he  parted  the  curtains  and 
came  out. 

Yes — Tom — Tom  Dorgan. 

My  heart  came  beating  up  to  my  throat  and 
then,  just  as  I  thought  I  should  choke,  it  slid  down 
to  my  boots,  sickening  me.  I  didn't  say  a  word.  I 
sat  there,  my  foot  in  my  lap,  staring  at  him. 

Oh,  Maggie-girl,  it  isn't  good  to  get  your  first 
glimpse  after  all  these  months  of  the  man  you  love 
crouched  like  a  big  bull  in  a  small  space,  poking  his 
close-cropped  black  head  out  like  a  turtle  that's  not 
sure  something  won't  be  thrown  at  it,  and  then 
dragging  his  big  bulk  out  and  standing  over  you. 
He  used  to  be  trim — Tom — and  taut,  but  in  those 
163 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

shapeless  things,  the  old  trousers,  the  dirty  white 
shirt,  and  the  vest  too  big  for  him — 

"Well,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  say  something?" 

Tom's  voice — Mag,  do  you  remember,  the  merry 
Irish  boy's  voice,  with  its  chuckles  like  a  brook 
gurgling  as  it  runs  ? 

No — 'tisn't  the  same  voice.  It's — it's  changed, 
Maggie.  It's  heavy  and — and  coarse — and — 
brutal.  That's  what  it  is.  It  sounds  like — like  the 
kriout,  like — 

"Nance — what  in  hell's — " 

"I  think  I'm— frightened,  Tom." 

"Oh,  the  ladyfied  airs  of  her!  Ain't  you  going 
to  faint,  Miss  Olden?" 

I  got  up. 

"No — no.  Sit  down,  Tom.  Tell  me  about  it. 
How — how  did  you  get  here?" 

He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it  a  bit  and  looked 
out  cautiously.  Mag — Mag — it  hurt  me — that. 
Why,  do  you  suppose? 

"You're  sure  nobody'll  come  in  ?"  he  asked. 

I  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  forgetting  that  it 
didn't  really  lock. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure,"  I  said.    "Why?" 

"Why!     You  have  got  slow.     Just  because  T 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

didn't  say  good-by  to  them  fellows  up  at  the  Pen, 
and—" 

"Oh!    You've  escaped!" 

"That's  what.  First  jail-break  in  fifteen  years. 
What  d'ye  think  of  your  Tommy,  old  girl,  eh? 
Ain't  he  the  gamest?  Ain't  you  proud  of  him?" 

My  God,  Mag !  Proud  of  him.  He  didn't  know 
— he  couldn't  see — himself.  He,  shut  in  like  a  wild 
beast,  couldn't  see  what  this  year  has  done  for 
him.  Oh,  the  change — the  change  in  him !  My  boy 
Tommy,  with  the  gay,  gallus  manner,  and  the 
pretty,  jolly  brogue,  and  the  laughing  mouth  un 
der  his  brown  mustache.  And  this  man — his  face  is 
old,  Mag,  old — oh! — and  hard — and — and  tough, 
cheap  and  tough.  There's  something  in  his  eyes 
now  and  about  his  shaven  mouth — oh,  Maggie, 
Maggie ! 

"Look  here,  Nance."  He  caugliit  me  by  the 
shoulders,  knocking  up  my  chin  so  that  he  could 
look  down  squarely  at  me.  "What's  your  graft? 
What's  it  to  be  between  us?  What've  ye  been 
doing  all  this  time?  Out  with  it !  I  want  to  know." 

I  shook  myself  free  and  faced  him. 

"I've  been — Tom  Dorgan,  I've  been  to  hear  the 
greatest  actors  and  actresses  in  the  world  say  and 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

do  the  finest  things  in  the  world.  I've  watched 
princesses  and  kings — even  if  they're  only  stage 
ones.  I've  read  a  new  book  every  night — a  great 
picture  book,  in  which  the  pictures  move  and  speak 
—that's  the  stage,  Tom  Dorgan.  Much  of  it 
wasn't  true,  but  a  girl  who's  been  brought  up  by  the 
Cruelty  doesn't  have  to  be  told  what's  true  and 
what's  false.  I've  met  these  people  and  lived  with 
them — as  one  does  who  thinks  the  same  thoughts 
and  feels  what  others  feel.  I  know  the  world  now, 
Tom  Dorgan,  the  real  world  of  men  and  women — 
not  the  little  world  of  crooks,  nor  yet  the  littler  one 
of  fairy  stories.  I've  got  a  glimpse,  too,  of  that 
other  world  where  all  the  scheming  and  lying  and 
cheating  is  changed  as  if  by  magic  into  something 
that  deceives  all  right,  but  doesn't  hurt.  It's  the 
world  of  art  and  artists,  Tom  Dorgan,  where  peo 
ple  paint  their  lies,  or  write  them,  or  act  them; 
where  they  lift  money  all  right  from  men's  pock 
ets,  but  lift  their  souls  and  their  lives,  too,  away 
from  the  things  that  trouble  and  bore  and — and  de 
grade. 

"You  needn't  sneer;  it's  made  a  different  Nance 
out  of  me,  Tom  Dorgan.     And,  oh,  but  I'm  sorry 
for  the  pert  little  beggar  we  both  knew  that  lied 
166 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

.ind  stole  and  hid  and  ran  and  skulked!  She  was 
like  a  poor  little  ignorant  traveler  in  a  great  coun 
try  where  she'd  sized  up  the  world  from  the  few 
fool  crooks  she  was  thrown  in  with.  She — " 

"Aw,  cut  it!" 

"Tom — does — doesn't  it  mean  anything  to  you? 
Can't  it  mean  lots  to  both  of  us  now  that — " 

"Cut  it,  I  tell  you !  Thint  I  killed  one  guard  and 
ocat  the  other  till  I'd  broke  every  bo  e  in  his  body 
to  come  here  and  listen  to  such  guff?  You've  been 
having  a  high  old  time,  eh,  and  you  never  give  a 
thought  to  me  up  there !  I  might  'a'  rotted  in  that 
black  hole  for  all  you'd  care,  you — " 

"Don't!  I  did,  Tom;  I  did."  I  was  shivering 
at  the  name,  but  I  couldn't  bear  his  thinking  that 
way  of  me.  "I  went  up  once,  but  they  wouldn't  let 
me  see  you.  I  wrute  you,  but  they  sent  back  the  let 
ters.  Mag  went  up,  too,  but  had  to  come  back. 
And  that  time  I  brought  you — " 

My  voice  trailed  off.  In  that  minute  I  saw  my 
self  on  the  way  up  to  Sing  Sing  with  the  basket  and 
all  my  hopes  and  all  my  schemes  for  amusing  him. 

And  this  is  what  I'd  have  seen  if  they'd  let  me  in 
• — this  big,  gruff,  murdering  beast! 

Oh,  yes — yes — beast  is  what  he  is,  and  it  didn't 
167 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

make  him  look  it  less  that  he  believed  me  and — and 
began  to  think  of  me  in  a  different  way. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  go  back  on  a  feller, 
Nance.  That's  why  I  come  straight  to  you.  It 
was  my  game  to  have  you  hide  me  for  a  day  or  two, 
till  you  could  make  a  strike  somewhere  and  we'd 
light  out  together.  How're  ye  fixed  ?  Pretty  smart, 
eh?  You  look  it,  my  girl,  you  look — My  eye, 
Nance,  you  look  good  enough  to  eat,  and  I'm  hun 
gry  for  you !" 

Maggie,  if  I'd  had  to  die  for  it  I  couldn't  have 
moved  then.  You'd  think  a  man  would  know  when 
the  woman  he's  holding  in  his  arms  is  fainting — 
sick  at  the  touch  of  him.  A  woman  would.  It 
wasn't  my  Tom  that  I'd  known,  that  I'd  worked 
with  and  played  with  and —  It  was  a  great  brute, 
whose  mouth — who  had  no  eyes,  no  ears,  no  senses 
but — ah!  .  .  . 

He  laughed  when  I  broke  away  from  him  at  last. 
He  laughed !  And  I  knew  then  I'd  have  to  tell  him 
straight  in  words. 

"Tom,"  I  gasped,  "you  can  have  all  I've  got; 
and  it's  plenty  to  get  you  out  of  the  way.  But — 
but  you  can't  have — me — any  more.  That's — • 
done!" 

168 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  the  beast  in  his  face!  It  must  have  looked 
like  that  when  the  guard  got  his  last  glimpse  of  it. 

"You're  kiddin'  me  ?"  he  growled. 

I  shook  my  head. 

Then  he  ripped  it  out.  Said  the  worst  he  could 
and  ended  with  a  curse!  The  blood  boiled  in  me. 
The  old  Nance  never  stood  that ;  she  used  to  sneer 
at  other  women  who  did. 

"Get  out  of  here !"  I  cried.  "Go — go,  Tom  Dor- 
gan.  I'll  send  every  cent  I've  got  to  you  to  Mother 
Douty's  within  two  hours,  but  don't  you  dare — " 

"Don't  you  dare,  you  she-devil!  Just  make  up 
your  mind  to  drop  these  newfangled  airs,  and 
mighty  quick.  I  tell  you  you'll  come  with  me  'cause 
I  need  you  and  I  want  you,  and  I  want  you  now. 
And  I'll  keep  you  when  once  I  get  you  again.  We'll 
hang  together.  No  more  o'  this  one-sided  lay-out 
for  me,  where  you  get  all  the  soft  and  it's  me  for 
the  hard.  You  belong  to  me.  Yes,  you  do.  Just 
think  back  a  bit,  Nance  Olden,  and  remember  the 
kind  of  customer  I  am.  If  you've  forgot,  just  let 
me  remind  you  that  what  I  know  would  put  you  be 
hind  bars,  my  lady,  and  it  shall,  I  swear,  if  I've  got 
to  go  to  the  Chair  for  it !" 


169 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Tom!  It  was  Tom  talking  that  way  to  me.  I 
couldn't  bear  it.  I  made  a  rush  for  the  door. 

He  got  there,  too,  and  catching  me  by  the  shoul 
der,  he  lifted  his  fist. 

But  it  never  fell,  Mag.  I  think  I  could  kill  a 
man  who  struck  me.  But  just  as  I  shut  my  eyes 
and  shivered  away  from  him,  while  I  waited  for  the 
blow,  a  knock  came  at  the  door  and  Fred  Obermul- 
ler  walked  in. 

"Eh?  Oh!  Excuse  me.  I  didn't  know  there 
was  anybody  else.  Nance,  your  face  is  ghastly. 
.  .  .  What's  up  ?"  he  said  sharply. 

He  looked  from  me  to  Tom — Tom,  standing 
off  there  ready  to  spring  on  him,  to  dart  past  him, 
to  fly  out  of  the  window — ready  for  anything ;  only 
waiting  to  know  what  the  thing  was  to  be. 

My  senses  came  back  to  me  then.  The  sight  of 
Obermuller,  with  those  keen,  quick  eyes  behind  his 
glasses,  his  strong,  square  chin,  and  the  whole  poise 
of  his  head  and  body  that  makes  men  wait  to  hear 
what  he  has  to  say;  the  knowledge  that  that  man 
was  my  friend,  mine — Nancy  Olden's — lifted  me 
out  of  the  mud  I'd  sunk  back  in,  and  put  my  feet 
again  on  a  level  with  his. 

"Tom,"  I  said  slowly,  "Mr.  Obermuller  is  a 
170 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

friend  of  mine.  No — listen !  What  we've  been 
talking  about  is  settled.  Don't  bring  it  up  again. 
It  doesn't  interest  him  and  it  can't  change  me;  I 
swear  to  you,  it  can't ;  nothing  can.  I'm  going  to 
ask  Mr.  Obermuller  to  help  you  without  telling  him 
just  what  the  scrape  is,  and — and  I'm  going  to  be 
sure  that  he'll  do  it  just  because  he — " 

"Because  you've  taken  up  with  him,  have  you?" 
Tom  shouted  savagely.  "Because  she's  your — " 

"Tom!"  I  cried. 

"Tom — oh,  yes,  now  I  remember."  Obermullcr 
got  between  us  as  he  spoke.  "Your  friend  up — in 
the  country  that  you  went  to  see  and  couldn't.  Not 
a  very  good-looker,  your  friend,  Nance.  But — 
farming,  I  suppose,  Mr. — Tom? — plays  the  deuce 
with  one's  looks.  And  another  thing  it  does:  it 
makes  a  man  forget  sometimes  just  how  to  behave 
in  town.  I'll  be  charmed,  Mr.  Tom,  to  oblige  a 
friend  of  Miss  Olden's;  but  I  must  insist  that  he 
does  not  talk  like  a — farmer." 

He  was  quite  close  to  Tom  when  he  finished,  and 
Tom  was  glaring  up  at  him.  And,  Mag,  I  didn't 
know  which  one  I  was  most  afraid  for.  Don't  you 
look  at  me  that  way,  Mag  Monahan,  and  don't  you 
dare  to  guess  anything ! 

171 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"If  you  think,"  growled  Tom,  "that  I'm  going 
to  let  you  get  off  with  the  girl,  you're  mighty — " 

"Now,  I've  told  you  not  to  say  that.  The  reason 
I'll  do  the  thing  she's  going  to  ask  of  me — if  it's 
what  I  think  it  is — is  because  this  girl's  a  plucky 
little  creature  with  a  soul  big  enough  to  lift  her  out 
of  the  muck  you  probably  helped  her  into.  It's  be 
cause  she's  got  brains,  talent,  and  a  heart.  It's  be 
cause — well,  it's  because  I  feel  like  it,  and  she  de 
serves  a  friend." 

"You  don't  know  what  she  is."  It  was  a  snarl 
from  Tom.  "You  don't—" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do ;  you  cur !  I  know  what  she  was, 
too.  And  I  even  know  what  she  will  be ;  but  that 
doesn't  concern  you." 

"The  hell  it  don't!" 

Obermuller  turned  his  back  on  him.  I  was  dumb 
and  still.  Tom  Dorgan  had  struck  me  after  all. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do,  Nance?"  Ober 
muller  asked. 

"Get  him  away  on  a  steamer — quick,"  I  mur 
mured — I  couldn't  look  him  in  the  face — "without 
asking  why,  or  what  his  name  is." 

He  turned  to  Tom.    "Well  ?" 

"I  won't  go — not  without  her." 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Because  you're  so  fond  of  her,  eh?  So  fond, 
jour  first  thought  on  quitting  the — country  was  to 
come  here  to  get  her  in  trouble.  If  you've  been 
traced—" 

"Ah!  You  wouldn't  like  that,  eh?"  sneered  Tom. 

"Would  you?" 

"Well,  I've  had  my  share  of  it.  And  she  ain't. 
Still — I  .  .  .  Just  what  would  it  be  worth  to 
you  to  have  me  out  of  the  way  ?" 

"Oh,  Tom — Tom — "  I  cried. 

But  Obcrmuller  got  in  front  of  me. 

"It  would  be  worth  exactly  one  dollar  and  sev 
enty-five  cents.  I  think  it  will  amount  to  about 
that  for  cab-hire.  I  guess  the  cars  aren't  any  too 
safe  for  you,  or  it  might  be  less.  It  may  amount  to 
something  more  before  I  get  you  shipped  before 
the  mast  on  the  first  foreign-bound  boat.  But 
what's  more  important,"  he  added,  bringing  his  fist 
down  with  a  mighty  thump  on  the  table,  "you  have 
just  ten  seconds  to  make  up  your  mind.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I'll  ring  for  the  police." 

***#******* 

I  went  down  to  the  boat  to  see  it  sail,  Mag,  at 
seven  this  morning.    No,  not  to  say  good-by  to  him. 
He  didnn,  know  I  was  there.    It  was  to  say  good-by 
173 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

to  my  old  Tommy;  the  one  I  loved.  Truly  I  did 
love  him,  Mag,  though  he  never  cared  for  me.  No, 
he  didn't.  Men  don't  pull  down  the  women  the}7 
love;  I  know  that  now.  If  Tom  Dorgan  had  ever 
cared  for  me  he  wouldn't  have  made  a  thief  of  me. 
If  he'd  cared,  the  last  place  on  earth  he'd  have  come 
to,  when  he  knew  the  detectives  would  be  on  his 
track,  would  have  been  just  the  first  place  he  made 
for.  If  he'd  cared,  he — 

But  it's  done,  Mag.  It's  all  over.  Cheap — that's 
what  he  is,  this  Tom  Dorgan.  Cheaply  bad — a 
cheap  bully,  cheap-brained.  Remember  my  wish 
ing  he'd  have  been  a  ventriloquist?  Why,  that  man 
that  tried  to  sell  me  to  Obermuller  hasn't  sense 
enough  to  be  a  good  scene-shifter.  Oh — 

The  firm  of  Dorgan  &  Olden  is  dissolved,  Mag. 
The  retiring  partner  has  gone  into  the  theatrical 
business.  As  for  Dorgan — the  real  one,  poor  fel 
low!  jolly,  handsome,  big  Tom  Dorgan — he  died* 
Yes,  he  died,  Maggie,  and  was  buried  up  there  in 
the  prison  graveyard.  A  hard  lot  for  a  boy ;  but 
it's  not  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  him.  He 
might  become  a  man;  such  a  man  as  that  feJlow 
that  sailed  away  before  the  mast  this  morning. 


174. 


There  I  was  seated  in  a  box  all  alone — Misa 
Nancy  Olden,  by  courtesy  of  the  management,  come 
to  listen  to  the  leading  lady  sing  coon-songs,  that  I 
might  add  her  to  my  collection  of  take-offs. 

She's  a  fat  leading  lady,  very  fair  and  nearly 
fifty,  I  guess.  But  she's  got  a  rollicking,  husky 
voice  in  her  fat  throat  that's  sung  the  dollars  down 
deep  into  her  pockets.  They  say  she's  planted 
them  deeper  still — in  the  foundations  of  apartment 
houses — and  that  now  she's  the  richest  roly-poly  on 
the  Rialto. 

Do  you  know,  Maggie  darlin',  what  I  was  saying 
to  myself  there  in  the  box,  while  I  watched  the  stage 
and  waited  for  Obermuller?  He  said  he'd  drop  in 
later,  perhaps. 

"Nance,"  I  said,  "I  kind  of  fancy  that  apartment 
sort  of  idea  myself.  They  tell  you,  Nancy,  that 
when  you've  got  the  artistic  temperament,  that 
that's  all  you'll  ever  have.  But  there's  a  chance — 
one  in  a  hundred — for  a  body  to  get  that  tempera- 
175 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

ment  mixed  with  a  business  instinct.  It  doesn't 
often  happen.  But  when  it  does  the  result  is — dol 
lars.  It  may  be,  Nance — I  shrewdly  suspect  it  is  a 
fact  that  you've  got  that  marvelous  mixture.  Your 
early  successes,  Miss  Olden,  in  another  profession 
that  I  needn't  name,  would  encourage  the  idea  that 
you're  not  all  heart  and  no  head.  I  think,  Nance, 
I  shall  have  you  mimic  the  artists  during  working 
hours  and  the  business  men  when  you're  at  play.  I 
fancy  apartment  houses.  They  appeal  to  me. 
We'll  call  one  'The  Nancy'  and  another  'Olden 
Hall' and  another  ..." 

"What'll  I  call  the  third  apartment  house,  Mr. 
O  ?"  I  asked  aloud,  as  I  heard  the  rings  on  the  por 
tiere  behind  me  click. 

He  didn't  answer. 

Without  turning  my  head  I  repeated  the  ques 
tion. 

And  yet — suddenly — before  he  could  have  an 
swered,  I  knew  something  was  wrong. 

I  turned.  And  in  that  moment  a  man  took  the 
seat  beside  me  and  another  stood  facing  me,  witb 
his  back  against  the  portieres. 

"Miss  Olden  ?"  the  man  beside  me  asked* 

"Yes." 

176 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Nance  Olden,  the  mimic,  who  entertains  at  pri 
vate  houses?" 

I  nodded. 

"You — you  were  at  Mrs.  Paul  Gates'  just  a  week 
ago,  and  you  gave  your  specialties  there?" 

"Yes — yes,  what  is  it  you  want?" 

He  was  a  little  man,  but  very  muscular.  I  could 
note  the  play  of  his  muscles  even  in  the  slight  mo 
tion  he  made  as  he  turned  his  body  so  as  to  get  be 
tween  me  and  the  audience,  while  he  leaned  toward 
me,  watching  me  intently  with  his  small,  quick,  blue 
eyes. 

"We  don't  want  to  make  any  scene  here,"  he  said 
very  low.  "We  want  to  do  it  up  as  quietly  as  we 
can.  There  might  be  some  mistake,  you  know,  and 
then  you'd  be  sorry.  So  should  we.  I  hope  you'll 
be  reasonable  and  it'll  be  all  the  better  for  you  be 
cause — " 

"What  are  you  tulk — what — "  I  looked  from 
him  to  the  other  fellow  behind  us. 

He  leaned  a  bit  farther  forward  then,  and  pull 
ing  his  coat  partly  open,  he  showed  me  a  detective'g 
badge.  And  the  other  man  quickly  did  the  same. 

I  sat  back  in  my  chair.  The  fat  star  on  the  staget 
with  her  big  mouth  and  big  baby-face,  was  doing  a 
177 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

cake-walk  up  and  down  close  to  the  footlights,  jell 
ing  the  chorus  of  her  song. 

I'll  never  mimic  that  song,  Mag,  although  I  can 
see  her  and  hear  it  as  plain  as  though  I'd  listened 
and  watched  her  all  my  life.  But  there's  no  fun  in 
it  for  me.  I  hate  the  very  bars  the  orchestra  plays 
before  she  begins  to  sing.  I  can't  bear  even  to  think 
of  the  words.  The  whole  of  it  is  full  of  horrible 
things — it  smells  of  the  jail — it  looks  like  stripes — 
it  ... 

"You're  not  going  to  faint?"  asked  the  man, 
moving  closer  to  me. 

"Me?  I  never  fainted  in  my  life.  .  .  Where 
is  he  now — Tom  Dorgan?" 

"Tom  Dorgan!" 

"Yes.  I  was  sure  I  saw  him  sail,  but,  of  course,  I 
was  mistaken.  He  has  sent  you  after  me,  has  he? 
I  can  hardly  believe  it  of  Tom — even — even  yet." 

"I  don't  know  anything  that  connects  you  with 
Dorgan.  If  he  was  in  with  you  on  this,  you'd  bet 
ter  remember,  before  you  say  anything  more,  that 
it'll  all  be  used  against  you." 

The  curtain  had  gone  down  and  gone  up  again, 
I  was  watching  the  star.  She  ha*  such  a  boyish 


178 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

way  of  nodding  her  head,  instead  of  bowing,  after 
she  waddles  out  to  the  center;  and  every  time  she 
wipes  her  lips  with  her  lace  handkerchief,  as  though 
she'd  just  taken  one  of  the  cocktails  she  makes  in 
the  play  with  all  the  skill  of  a  bartender.  I  found 
myself  doing  the  same  thing — wiping  my  lips  with 
that  very  same  gesture,  as  though  I  had  a  fat,  bare 
forearm  like  a  rolling-pin — when  all  at  once  the 
thought  came  to  me:  "You  needn't  bother,  Nan 
cy.  It's  all  up.  You  won't  have  any  use  for  it  all." 

"Just  what  is  the  charge?"  I  asked,  turning  to 
the  man  beside  me. 

"Stealing  a  purse  containing  three  hundred  dol 
lars  from  Mrs.  Paul  Gates'  house  on  the  night  of 
April  twenty-seventh." 

"What!" 

It  was  Obermuller.  He  had  pushed  the  curtains 
aside ;  the  crashing  of  the  orchestra  had  prevented 
our  hearing  the  clatter  of  the  rings.  He  had  pushed 
by  the  man  standing  there,  had  come  in  and — he 
had  heard. 

"Nance !"  he  cried.  "I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it* 
He  turned  in  his  quick  way  to  the  men.  "What  are 
your  orders?" 


179 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"To  take  her  to  her  flat  and  search  it." 

Obermuller  came  over  to  me  then,  and  took  my 
hand  for  a  minute. 

"It's  a  pity  they  don't  know  ahout  the  Gray 
rose  diamond,"  he  whispered,  helping  me  on  with 
my  jacket.  "They'd  see  how  silly  this  little  three- 
hundred  dollar  business  is.  ...  Brace  up, 
Nance  Olden!" 

Oh,  Mag,  Mag,  to  hear  a  man  like  that  talk  to 
you  as  though  you  were  his  kind,  when  you  have  the 
feel  of  the  coarse  prison  stripes  between  your  dry, 
shaking  fingers,  and  the  close  prison  smell  is  al 
ready  poisoning  your  nostrils ! 

"I  don't  see — "  my  voice  shook — "how  you  can 
believe — in  me." 

"Don't  you?"  he  laughed.  "That's  easy.  You've 
got  brains,  Nance,  and  the  most  imbecile  thing  you 
could  do  just  now,  when  your  foot  is  already  on  the 
ladder,  would  be  just  this — to  get  off  in  order  to 
pick  up  a  trinket  out  of  the  mud,  when  there's  a 
fortune  up  at  the  top  waiting  for  you.  Clever 
people  don't  do  asinine  things.  And  other  clever 
*  people  know  that  they  don't.  You're  clever,  but  so 
am  I — in  my  weak,  small  way.  Come  along,  little 

girl." 

180 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

He  pulled  my  hand  in  his  arm  and  we  walked  outt 
followed  by  the  two  men. 

Oh,  no!  It  was  all  very  quiet  and  looked  just 
like  a  little  theater  party  that  had  an  early  supper 
engagement.  Obermuller  nodded  to  the  manager 
out  in  the  deserted  lobby,  who  stopped  us  and  asked 
me  what  I  thought  of  the  star. 

You'll  think  me  mad,  Mag.  Those  fellows  with 
the  badges  were  sure  I  was,  but  Obermuller's  eyes 
only  twinkled,  and  the  manager's  grin  grew  broad 
when,  catcliing  up  the  end  of  my  skirt  and  cake- 
walking  up  and  down,  I  sang  under  my  breath  that 
coon-song  that  was  trailing  over  and  over  through 
my  head. 

"Bravo!  bravo!"  whispered  the  manager, 
hoarsely,  clapping  his  hands  softly. 

I  gave  one  of  those  quick,  funny,  boyish  nods  the 
star  inside  affects  and  wiped  my  lips  with  my  hand 
kerchief. 

That  brought  down  my  house.  Even  the  biggest 
fellow  with  the  badge  giggled  recognizingly,  and 
then  put  his  hand  quickly  in  front  of  his  mouth  and 
tried  to  look  severe  and  official. 

The  color  had  come  back  to  Obermuller's  face; 
it  was  worth  dancing  for — that. 
181 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Be  patient,  Mag ;  let  me  tell  it  my  way." 

There  wasn't  room  in  the  coupe  waiting  out  in 
front  for  more  than  two.  So  Obermuller  couldn't 
come  in  it.  But  he  put  me  in — Mag,  dear,  dear 
Mag — he  put  me  in  as  if  I  was  a  lady — not  like 
Gray;  a  real  one.  A  thing  like  that  counts  when 
two  detectives  are  watching.  It  counted  afterward 
in  the  way  they  treated  me. 

The  big  man  climbed  up  on  the  seat  with  the 
driver.  The  blue-eyed  fellow  got  in  and  sat  be- 
jside  me,  closing  the  door. 

"I'll  be  out  there  almost  as  soon  as  you  are," 
Obermuller  said,  standing  a  moment  beside  the  low 
ered  window. 

"You  good  fellow!"  I  said,  and  then,  trying  to 
laugh :  "I'll  do  as  much  for  you  some  day." 

He  shook  his  fist  laughingly  at  me,  and  I  waved 
my  hand  as  we  drove  off. 

"You  know,  Miss,  there  may  be  some  mistake 
about  this,"  said  the  man  next  to  me,  "and — " 

"Yes,  there  may  be.    In  fact,  there  is." 

"I'm  sure  I'll  be  very  glad  if  it  is  a  mistake. 
They  do  happen — though  not  often.  You  spoke  of 
Dorgan — " 

"Did  I?" 

182 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Yes,  Tom  Dorgan,  who  busted  out  of  Sing  Sing 
the  other  day." 

"Surely  you're  mistaken,"  I  said,  smiling  right 
into  his  blue  eyes.  "The  Tom  Dorgan  I  mentioned 
is  a  sleight-of-hand  performer  at  the  Vaudeville. 
Ever  see  him?" 

«N— no." 

"Clever  fellow.  You  ought  to.  Perhaps  you 
don't  recognize  him  under  that  name.  On  the  bills 
he's  Professor  Haughwout.  Stage  people  have  so 
many  names,  you  know." 

"Yes,  so  have — some  other  people." 

I  laughed,  and  he  grinned  back  at  me. 

"Now  that's  mean  of  you,"  I  said ;  "I  never  had 
but  one.  It  was  all  I  needed." 

It  flashed  through  me  then  what  a  thing  like  this 
might  do  to  a  name.  You  know,  Mag,  every  bit  of 
recognition  an  actress  steals  from  the  world  is  so 
much  capital.  It  isn't  like  the  old  graft  when  you 
had  to  begin  new  every  time  you  took  up  a  piece  of 
work.  And  your  name — the  name  the  world  knows 
— and  its  knowing  it  makes  it  worth  having  like 
everything — that  name  is  the  sum  of  every  scheme 
you've  planned,  of  every  time  you've  got  away 
with  the  goods,  of  every  laugh  you've  lifted,  of 
183 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

wery  bit  of  cleverness  you've  thought  out  and  em 
bodied,  of  everything  that's  in  you,  of  everything 
you  are. 

But  I  didn't  dare  think  long  of  this.  I  turned 
iho  him. 

"Tell  me  about  this  charge,"  I  said.  "Where 
was  the  purse?  Whose  was  it?  And  why  haven't 
they  missed  it  till  after  a  week?" 

"They  missed  it  all  right  that  night,  but  Mrs. 
Gates  wanted  it  kept  quiet  till  the  servants  had  been 
shadowed  and  it  was  positively  proved  that  they 
hadn't  got  away  with  it." 

"And  then  she  thought  of  me?" 

"And  then  she  thought  of  you." 

5CI  wonder  why?" 

"Because  you  were  the  only  person  in  that  room 
except  Mrs.  Gates,  the  lady  who  lost  the  purse. 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  and  —  eh?" 

"N  —  nothing.    Mrs.  Ramsay,  you  said?" 


"Not  Mrs.  Edward  Ramsay,  of  Philadelphia  ?* 

"Oh,  you  know  the  name?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  it." 

"It  was  printed,  you  know,  in  gold  lettering  on 

e  inside  flap  and  —  " 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  it  was,  and  it  contained  three  hundred 
dollars,  Mrs.  Ramsay  says.  She  had  slipped  it  un 
der  the  fold  of  the  spreac  at  the  top  of  the  bed  in 
the  room  where  you  took  off  your  things  in  Mrs. 
Gates'  presence,  and  put  them  on  again  when  no  one 
else  was  there." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  is  all?"  I 
raged  at  him;  "that  every  bit  of  evidence  you 
have  to  warrant  your  treating  an  innocent  girl 
like—" 

"You  didn't  behave  like  a  very  innocent  girl,  if 
you'll  remember,"  he  said  dryly,  "when  I  first  came 
into  the  box.  In  fact,  if  that  fellow  hadn't  just 
come  in  then  I  believe  you'd  'a'  confessed  the  whole 
job.  ...  'Tain't  too  late,"  he  added. 

I  didn't  answer.  I  put  my  head  back  against  the 
cushions  and  closed  my  eyes.  I  could  feel  the  scru 
tiny  of  his  blue  eyes  on  my  naked  face — your  face 
is  so  unprotected  with  the  eyes  closed;  like  a  fort 
whose  battery  is  withdrawn.  But  I  was  tired — it 
tires  you  when  you  care.  A  year  ago,  Mag,  this 
sort  of  thing — the  risk,  the  nearness  to  danger,  the 
chances  one  way  or  the  other — would  have  intoxi 
cated  me.  I  used  to  feel  as  though  I  was  dancing 
185 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

jn  a  volcano  and  daring  it  to  explode.  The  more 
twistings  and  turnings  there  were  to  the  labyrinth, 
fche  greater  glory  it  was  to  get  out.  Maggie  darlin', 
you  have  before  you  a  mournful  spectacle — the  de 
generation  of  Nancy  Olden.  It  isn't  that  she's  lost 
courage.  It's  only  that  she  used  to  be  able  to  think 
of  only  one  thing,  and  now —  What  do  you  sup 
pose  it  is,  Mag?  If  you  know,  don't  you  dare  to 
tell  me. 

When  we  got  to  the  flat  Obermuller  was  already 
there.  At  the  door  I  pulled  out  my  key  and  opened 
it  with  a  flourish. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  gentlemen,  and  spend  the 
evening?"  I  asked. 

They  followed  me  in.  First  to  the  parlor.  The 
two  fellows  threw  off  their  coats  and  searched  that 
through  and  through — not  a  drawer  did  they  miss, 
not  a  bit  of  furniture  did  they  fail  to  move.  Ober 
muller  and  I  sat  there  guying  them  as  they  pried 
about  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  That  Trust  business 
has  taken  the  life  out  of  him  of  late.  All  their 
tricks,  all  their  squeezings,  their  cheatings,  their 
bossing  and  bragging  and  bullying  have  got  on  to 
his  nerves  till  he  looks  like  a  chained  bear  getting  a 
irubbing.  And  he  swears  that  they're  in  a  con- 
186 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

^piracy  to  freeze  him  and  a  few  others  like  him  out  3 
he  believes  there's  actually  a  paper  in  existence  that 
would  prove  it.  But  this  affair  of  the  purse  seemed 
to  excite  him  till  he  behaved  like  a  bad  school-boy. 

And  I  ?  Well,  Nance  Olden  was  never  far  behind 
at  the  Cruelty  when  there  was  anything  going  on. 
We  trailed  after  them,  and  when  they'd  finished 
with  the  bedrooms — yours  and  mine — I  asked  the 
big  fellow  to  come  into  the  kitchen  with  Mr.  O.  and 
me,  while  the  blue-eyed  detective  tackled  the  din 
ing-room,  and  I'd  get  up  a  lunch  for  us  all. 

Mag,  you  should  have  seen  Fred  Obermuller  with 
a  big  apron  on  him,  dressing  the  salad  while  I  was 
making  sandwiches.  The  Cruelty  taught  me  how 
to  cook,  even  if  it  did  teach  me  other  things.  You 
wouldn't  have  believed  that  the  Trust  had  got  him 
by  the  throat,  and  was  choking  the  last  breath  out 
of  him.  You  wouldn't  have  believed  that  our  sal- 
aries  hadn't  been  paid  for  three  weeks,  that  our 
houses  were  dwindling  every  night,  that — 

I  was  thinking  about  it  all  there  in  the  back  of 
my  head,  trying  to  see  a  way  out  of  it — you  know 
if  there  is  such  an  agreement  as  Obermuller  swean 
there  is,  it's  against  the  law — while  we  rattled  on, 


187 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CAKRIAGE 

the  two  of  us,  like  a  couple  of  children  on  a  picnic, 
when  I  heard  a  crash  behind  me. 

The  salad  bowl  had  slipped  from  Obermuller's 
fingers.  He  stood  with  his  back  turned  to  me,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  that  searching  detective. 

But  he  wasn't  searching  any  more,  Mag.  He  was 
standing  still  as  a  pointer  that's  scented  game.  He 
had  moved  the  lounge  out  from  the  wall,  and  there 
on  the  floor,  spread  open  where  it  had  fallen,  lay  a 
handsome  elephant-skin  purse,  with  gold  corners. 
From  where  I  stood,  Mag,  I  could  read  the  plain 
gold  lettering  on  the  dark  leather.  I  didn't  have 
to  move.  It  was  plain  enough — quite  plain. 

MRS.    EDWARD    RAMSAY 

Hush,  hush,  Mag;  if  you  take  on  so,  how  can  I 
tell  you  the  rest  ? 

Obermuller  got  in  fronc  of  me  as  I  started  to 
walk  into  the  dining-room.  I  don't  know  what  his 
idea  was.  I  don't  suppose  he  does  exactly — if  it 
wasn't  to  spare  me  the  sight  of  that  damned  thing. 

Oh,  how  I  hated  it,  that  purse !  I  hated  it  as  if 
It  had  been  something  alive  that  could  be  glad  of 
what  it  had  done.  I  wished  it  was  alive  that  I  could 
183 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

tear  and  rend  it  and  stamp  on  it  and  throw  it  in  * 
fire,  and  drag  it  out  again,  with  burned  and  bleed 
ing  nails,  to  tear  it  again  and  again.  I  wanted  to 
fall  on  it  and  hide  it ;  to  push  it  far,  far  away  out 
of  sight ;  to  stamp  it  down — down  into  the  very 
bottom  of  the  earth,  where  it  could  feel  the  hell  it 
was  making  for  me. 

But  I  only  stood  there,  stupidly  looking  at  it, 
having  pushed  past  Obermuller,  as  though  I  neve.T 
wanted  to  see  anything  else. 

And  then  I  heard  that  blue-eyed  fellow's  words 
"Well,"  he  said,  pulling  on  his  coat  as  though 
he'd  done  a  good  day's  work,  "I  guess  you'd  jug* 
better  come  along  with  me." 


£89 


XL 


"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  get  out  of  this  ?" 
I  asked  Obermuller,  as  he  came  into  the  station  a 
few  minutes  after  I  got  there. 

"No." 

"I  do." 

"Because?" 

"Because  it  won't  do  you  any  good  to  have  your 
name  mixed  up  with  a  thing  like  this." 

"But  it  might  do  you  some  good." 

I  didn't  answer  for  a  minute  after  that.  I  sat  in 
my  chair,  my  eyes  bent  on  the  floor.  I  counted  the 
cracks  between  the  chair  and  the  floor  of  the  office 
where  the  Chief  was  busy  with  another  case.  I 
counted  them  six  times,  back  and  forth,  till  my  eyes 
were  clear  and  my  voice  was  steady. 

"You're  awfully  good,"  I  said,  looking  up  at  him 
as  he  stood  by  me.  "You're  the  best  fellow  I  ever 
knew.  I  didn't  know  men  could  be  so  good  to 
women.  .  .  But  you'd  better  go — please.  It'll 
be  bad  enough  when  the  papers  get  hold  of  thiss 
190 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

without  having  them  lump  you  in  with  a  bad  lot  lik* 
me." 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  gave  it  & 
quick  little  shake. 

"Don't  say  that  about  yourself.     You're  not  a 
bad  lot." 

"But — you  saw  the  purse." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it.    But  it  hasn't  proved  anything  tc 
me   but   this:  you're  innocent,   Nance,   or  you're 
crazy.    If  it's  the  first,  I  want  to  stand  by  you,  lit 
tie  girl.   If  it's  the  second — good  God !   I've  got  tc 
stand  by  you  harder  than  ever." 

Can  you  see  me  sitting  there,  Mag,  in  the  bright 
bare  little  room,  with  its  electric  lights,  still  in  my 
white  dress  and  big  white  hat,  my  pretty  jacket 
fallen  on  the  floor  beside  me?  I  could  feel  the  sharp 
blue  eyes  of  that  detective  Morris  feeding  on  my 
miserable  face.  But  I  could  feel,  too,  a  warmth 
like  wine  poured  into  me  from  that  big  fellow'* 
voice. 

I  put  my  hand  up  to  him  and  he  took  it. 

"If  I'm  innocent  and  can  prove  it,  Fred 
muller,  I'll  get  even  with  you  for — for  this." 

"Do  you  want  to  do  something  for  me  now  ?" 
"Do  I?" 

191 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  help  me,  don't  sit  there 
looking  like  the  criminal  ghost  of  the  girl  I  know.'* 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face.  Nance  Olden,  a 
sniveling  coward!  Me,  showing  the  white  feather 
- — me,  whimpering  like  a  whipped  puppy- — me — • 
Nance  Olden! 

"You  know,"  I  smiled  up  at  him,  "I  never  did  en 
joy  getting  caught." 

"Hush!  But  that's  better.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
2iow — " 

A  buzzer  sounded.  The  blue-eyed  detective  got 
•isp  and  came  over  to  me. 

"Chief's  ready,"  he  said.    "This  way." 

They  stopped  Obermuller  at  the  door.  But  he 
pushed  past  them. 

"I  want  to  say  just  a  word  to  you,  Chief,"  he 

said.    "You  remember  me.    I'm  Obermuller,  of  the 

Vaudeville.    If  you'll  send  those  fellows  out  and  let 

me  speak  to  you  just  a  moment,  I'll  leave  you  alone 

^with  Miss  Olden." 

The  Chief  nodded  to  the  blue-eyed  detective,  and 
lie  and  the  other  fellow  went  out  and  shut  the  door 
behind  them. 

"I  want  simply  to  call  your  attention  to  the  al> 
enrdity  and  unreasonableness  of  this  thing,"  Ober- 
192 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

muller  said,  leaning  up  against  the  Chief's  desk> 
while  he  threw  out  his  left  liand  with  that  big  open 
gesture  of  his,  "and  to  ask  }*ou  to  bear  in  mind,  no 
matter  what  appearances  may  be,  that  Miss  Olden 
is  the  most  talented  girl  on  the  stage  to-day ;  that 
in  a  very  short  time  sne  will  be  at  the  top ;  that  just 
now  she  is  not  suffering  for  lack  of  money;  that 
she's  not  a  high-roller,  but  a  determined,  hard 
working  little  grind,  and  that  if  she  did  feel  like 
taking  a  plunge,  she  knows  that  she  could  get  all 
she  wants  from  me  even — " 

"Even  if  you  can't  pay  salaries  when  they're  due, 
Obermuller."  The  Chief  grinned  under  his  white 
mustache. 

"Even  though  the  Trust  is  pushing  me  to  the 
wall ;  going  to  such  lengths  that  they're  liable  crim 
inally  as  well  as  civilly,  if  I  could  only  get  my  hands 
on  proof  of  their  rascality.  It's  true  I  can't  pay 
salaries  always  when  they're  due,  but  I  can  still 
raise  a  few  hundred  to  help  a  friend.  And  Mis§ 
Olden  is  a  friend  of  mine.  If  you  can  prove  that 
she  took  this  money,  you  prove  only  tliat  she's  gone 
mad,  but  you  don't — 

"All  right,  Obermuller.     You're  not  the  lawyer 
for  the  defense.     That'll  come  later — if  it  does 
193 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

some.  I'll  be  glad  to  bear  in  mind  all  you've  saidj 
and  much  that  you  haven't." 

"Thank  you.  Good  night.  .  .  .  I'll  wait 
for  you,  Nance,  outside." 

"I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  lot  of  questions,  Miss 
Olden,"  the  old  Chief  said,  when  we  were  alone. 
"Sit  here,  please.  Morris  tells  me  you've  got  more 
nerve  than  any  woman  that's  ever  come  before  me, 
so  I  needn't  bother  to  reassure  you.  You  don't 
look  like  a  girl  that's  easily  frightened.  I  have 
heard  how  you  danced  in  the  lobby  of  the  Manhat 
tan,  how  you  guyed  him  at  your  flat,  and  were  get 
ting  lunch  and  having  a  regular  picnic  of  a  time 
when—" 

"When  he  found  that  purse." 

"Exactly.    Now,  why  did  you  do  all  that?" 

"Why?  Because  I  felt  like  it.  I  felt  gay  and 
excited  and — " 

"Not  dreaming  that  that  purse  was  sure  to  be 
found?" 

"Not  dreaming  that  there  was  such  a  purse  in 
existence  except  from  the  detective's  say-so,  and 
never  fancying  for  an  instant  that  it  would  be 
found  in  my  flat." 

"Hm !"    He  looked  at  me  from  under  his  heavy* 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

wrinkled  old  lids.  You  don't  get  nice  eyes  from 
looking  on  the  nasty  things  in  this  world,  Mag. 

"Why,"  I  cried,  "what  kipd  of  a  girl  could  cut 
up  like  that  when  she  was  on  the  very  edge  of  dis 
covery  ?" 

"A  very  smart  girl — an  actress;  a  good  one;  a 
clever  thief  who's  used  to  bluffing.  Of  course,"  he 
added  softly,  "you  won't  misunderstand  me.  I'm 
simply  suggesting  the  different  kinds  of  girl  that 
could  have  done  what  you  did.  But,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I'll  do  the  questioning.  Nance  Olden,"  he 
turned  suddenly  on  me,  his  manner  changed  and 
threatening,  "what  has  become  of  that  three  hun 
dred  dollars?" 

"Mr.  Chief,  you  know  just  as  much  about  that  as 
I  do." 

I  threw  up  my  head  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face.  It  was  over  now — all  the  shivering  and 
trembling  and  fearing.  Nance  Olden's  not  a 
coward  when  she's  fighting  for  her  freedom;  and 
fighting  alone  without  any  sympathizing  friend  te 
weaken  her. 

He  returned  the  look  with  interest. 

"I  may  know  more,"  he  said  insinuatingly  0 

"Possibly."    I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

195 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

No,  it  wasn't  put  on.  There  never  jet  was  a  man 
who  bullied  me  that  didn't  rouse  the  fighter  in  me. 
I  swore  to  myself  that  this  old  thief-catcher 
shouldn't  rattle  me. 

"Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that  under  the  circum 
stances  a  full  confession  might  be  the  very  best 
thing  for  you?  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  these  people 
would  be  inclined  to  be  lenient  with  you  if  you'd 
return  the  money.  Doesn't  it  occur — " 

"It  might  occur  to  me  if  I  had  anything  to  con 
fess — about  this  purse." 

"How  long  since  you've  seen  Mrs.  Edward 
Ramsay  ?"  He  rushed  the  question  at  me. 

I  jumped. 

"How  do  you  know  I've  ever  seen  her?** 

"I  do  know  you  have." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"Thank  you ;  neither  do  I  believe  you,  which  is 
more  to  the  point.  Come,  answer  the  question: 
how  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen  the  lady?" 

I  looked  at  him.  And  then  I  looked  at  my  glove, 
and  slowly  pulled  the  fingers  inside  out,  and  then — 
then  I  giggled.  Suddenly  it  came  to  me — that 
silly,  little  insane  dodge  of  mine  in  the  Bishop's 


196 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

carriage  that  day ;  the  girl  who  had  lost  her  name ; 
and  the  use  all  that  affair  might  be  to  me  if  ever — 

"I'll  tell  you  if  you'll  let  me  think  a  minute,"  I 
said  sweetly.  "It — it  must  be  all  of  fifteen  months." 

"Ah!  You  see  I  did  know  that  you've  met  the 
lady.  If  you're  wise  you'll  draw  deductions  as  to 
other  things  I  know  that  you  don't  think  I  do0 
.  .  .  And  where  did  you  see  her?" 

"In  her  own  home." 

"Called  there,"  he  sneered,  "alone?" 

"No,"  I  said  very  gently.  "I  went  there,  to  the 
best  of  my  recollection,  with  the  Bishop — yes,  it 
was  the  Bishop,  Bishop  Van  Wagenen." 

"Indeed!" 

I  could  see  that  he  didn't  believe  a  word  I  was 
saying,  which  made  me  happily  eager  to  tell  him 
more. 

"Yes,  we  drove  up  to  the  Square  one  afternoon 
in  the  Bishop's  carriage — the  fat,  plum-colored 
one,  you  know.  We  had  tea  there — at  least,  I  did 
I  was  to  have  spent  the  night,  but — " 

"That's  enough  of  that." 

I  chuckled.    Yes,  Mag  Monahan,  I  was  enjoying 
myself.     I  was  having  a  run  for  my  .money,  ever 
if  it  was  the  last  run  I  was  to  have. 
197 


IN    THE    BISHOFS    CARRIAGE 

"So  it's  fifteen  months  since  you've  seen  Mrs. 
Hamsay,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

He  turned  on  me  with  a  roar. 

"And  yet  it's  only  a  week  since  you  saw  her  at 
Mrs.  Gates'." 

"Oh,  no." 

"No?    Take  care!" 

"That  night  at  Mrs.  Gates'  it  was  dark,  you 
know,  in  the  front  room.  I  didn't  see  Mrs.  Ram 
say  that  night.  I  didn't  know  she  was  there  at  all 
till—" 

"Till?" 

"Till  later  I  was  told." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Her  husband." 

He  threw  down  his  pencil. 

"Look  here,  this  is  no  lark,  young  woman,  and 
you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  weave  any  more 
fairy  tales.  Mr.  Ramsay  is  in  a — he's  very  ill. 
His  own  wife  hasn't  seen  him  since  that  night,  so 
you  see  you're  lying  uselessly." 

"Really!"  So  Edward  didn't  go  back  to  Mrs. 
Gates5  that  night.  Tut!  tut!  After  his  tele* 
phone  message,  too ! 

198 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Now,  assuming  your  innocence  of  the  theft. 
Miss  Olden,  what  is  your  theory ;  how  do  you  ac 
count  for  the  presence  of  that  purse  in  your  flat?'* 

"Now,  you've  hit  the  part  of  it  that  really  puz 
zles  me.  How  do  you  account  for  it ;  what  is  your 
theory?" 

He  got  to  his  feet,  pushing  his  chair  back  sharp- 

ly- 

"My  theory,  if  you  want  to  know  it,  is  that  you 
stole  the  purse;  that  your  friend  Obermuller  he- 
lieves  you  did;  that  you  got  away  with  the  three 
hundred,  or  hid  it  away,  and — 

"And  what  a  stupid  thief  I  must  be,  then,  to  leave 
the  empty  purse  under  my  lounge !" 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  empty?"  he  demanded 
sliarply. 

"You  said  so.  .  .  Well,  you  gave  me  to  un 
derstand  that  it  was,  then.  What  difference  does  it 
make  ?  It  would  be  a  still  stupider  thief  who'd  leave 
a  full  purse  instead  of  an  empty  one  under  his  own 
i  lounge." 

"Yes ;  and  you're  not  stupid,  Miss  Olden." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  say  as  much  for 
you." 

I  couldn't  help  it.  He  was  such  a  stupid.  The 
199 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

idea  of  telling  me  that  Fred  Obermuller  believed  me 
guilty !  The  idea  of  thinking  me  such  a  fool  as  to 
believe  that!  Such  men  as  that  make  criminals. 
They're  so  fat-witted  you  positively  ache — they  so 
tempt  you  to  pull  the  wool  over  their  eyes.  0 
Mag,  if  the  Lord  had  only  made  men  cleverer, 
there'd  be  fewer  Nancy  Oldens. 

The  Chief  blew  a  blast  at  his  speaking-tube  that 
made  his  purple  cheeks  seem  about  to  burst.  My 
shoulders  shook  as  I  watched  him,  he  was  so 
wrathy. 

And  I  was  still  laughing  when  I  followed  the  de 
tective  out  into  the  waiting-room,  where  Obermuller 
was  pacing  the  floor.  At  the  sight  of  my  smiling 
face  he  came  rushing  to  me. 

"Nance!"  he  cried. 

"Orders  are,  Morris,"  came  in  a  bellow  from  the 
Chief  at  his  door,  "that  no  further  communication 
be  allowed  between  the  prisoner  and — " 

Phew!  All  the  pertness  leaked  out  of  me.  Oh, 
Mag,  I  don't  like  that  word.  It  stings — it  binds — 
it  cuts. 

I  don't  know  what  I  looked  like  then;  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  me.  I  was  watching  Obermuller's  face. 


200 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

It  seemed  to  grow  old  and  thin  and  haggard  before 
my  eyes,  as  the  blood  drained  out  of  it.  He  turned 
with  an  exclamation  to  the  Chief  and — 

And  j  ust  then  there  came  a  long  ring  at  the  tele 
phone. 

Why  did  I  stand  there?  O  Mag,  when  you're 
on  your  way  to  the  place  I  was  bound  for,  when  you 
know  that  before  you'll  set  foot  in  this  same  bright 
little  room  again,  the  hounds  in  half  a  dozen  cities 
will  have  scratched  clean  every  hiding-place  you've 
had,  when  your  every  act  will  be  known  and — and 
— oh,  then,  you  wait,  Mag,  you  wait  for  anything 
— anything  in  the  world ;  even  a  telephone  call  that 
may  only  be  bringing  in  another  wretch  like  your 
self  ;  bound,  like  yourself,  for  the  Tombs. 

The  Chief  himself  went  to  answer  it. 

"Yes— what?"  he  growled.  "Well,  tell  Long 
Distance  to  get  busy.  What's  that?  St.  Francis — 
that's  the  jag  ward,  isn't  it?  Who  is  it?  Who? 
Ramsay !" 

I  caught  Obermuller's  hand. 

"I  don't  hear  you,"  the  Chief  roared.  "Oh— 
yes?  Yes,  we've  got  the  thief,  but  the  money — no, 
we  haven't  got  the  money.  The  deuce  you  say ! 


201 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Took  it  yourself?  Out  of  your  wife's  purse — yes. 
.  .  .  Yes.  But  we've  got  the —  What?  Don't 
remember  where  you — " 

"Steady,  Nance,"  whispered  Obermuller,  grab 
bing  my  other  hand. 

I  tried  to  stand  steady,  but  everything  swayed 
and  I  couldn't  hear  the  rest  of  what  the  Chief  was 
saying,  though  all  my  life  seemed  condensed  into  a 
listening.  But  I  did  hear  when  he  jammed  the  re 
ceiver  on  the  hook  and  faced  us. 

"Well,  they've  got  the  money.  Ramsay  took 
the  purse  himself,  thinking  it  wasn't  safe  there  un 
der  the  spread  where  any  servant  might  be  tempted 
who  chanced  to  uncover  it.  You'll  admit  the  thing 
looked  shady.  The  reason  Mrs.  Ramsay  didn't 
know  of  it  is  because  the  old  man's  just  come  to  his 
senses  in  a  hospital  and  been  notified  that  the  purse 
was  missing." 

"I  want  to  apologize  to  you,  Chief,"  I  mumbled. 

"For  thinking  me  stupid?    Oh,  we  were  both — " 

"No,  for  thinking  me  not  stupid.  I  am  stupid 
• — stupid — stupid.  The  old  fellow  I  told  you  about, 
Mr.  O.,  and  the  way  I  telephoned  him  out  of  the  flat 
that  night — it  was — " 

"Ramsay !" 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  nodded,  and  then  crumbled  to  the  floor. 

It  was  then  that  they  sent  for  you,  Mag. 

Why  didn't  I  tell  it  straight  at  the  first,  you  dear 
old  Mag?  Because  I  didn't  know  the  straight  of  it, 
then,  myself.  I  was  so  heavy-witted  I  never  once 
thought  of  Edward.  He  must  have  taken  the  bills 
out  of  the  purse  and  then  crammed  them  in  his 
pocket  while  he  was  waiting  there  on  the  lounge 
and  I  was  pretending  to  telephone  and — 

But  it's  best  as  it  is— oh,  so  best !  Think,  Mag. 
Two  people  who  knew  her — who  knew  her,  mind — 
believed  in  Nancy  Olden,  in  spite  of  appearances: 
Obermuller,  while  we  were  in  the  thick  of  it,  and 
you,  you  dear  girl,  while  I  was  telling  you  of  it. 


203 


XIL 

When  Obermuller  sent  for  me  I  thought  he 
wanted  to  see  me  about  that  play  he's  writing  in 
which  I'm  to  star — when  the  pigs  begin  to  fly. 

Funniest  thing  in  the  world  about  that  man, 
Mag.  He  knows  he  can't  get  bookings  for  any 
play  on  earth ;  that  if  he  did  they'd  be  canceled  and 
any  old  excuse  thrown  at  him,  as  soon  as  Tausig 
heard  of  it  and  could  put  on  the  screws.  He  knows 
that  there  isn't  an  unwatched  hole  in  theatrical 
America  through  which  he  can  crawl  and  pull  me 
and  the  play  in  after  him.  And  yet  he  just  can't 
let  go  working  on  it.  He  loves  it,  Mag ;  he  loves  it 
as  Molly  loved  that  child  of  hers  that  kept  her  nurs 
ing  it  all  the  years  of  its  life,  and  left  her  feeling 
that  the  world  had  been  robbed  of  everything  there 
was  for  a  woman  to  do  when  it  died. 

Obermuller  has  told  me  all  the  plot.     In  fact, 

he's  worked  it  out  on  me.     I  know  it  as  it  is,  as  he 

wanted  it  to  be,  and  as  it's  going  to  be.    He  tells  me 

he's  built  it  up  about  me ;  that  it  will  fit  me  as  never 

204 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

a  comedy  fitted  a  player  yet,  and  thaf  we'll  make 
such  a  hit — the  play  and  I  together — that  .  .  . 

And  then  he  remembers  that  there's  nc  chance; 
lot  the  ghost  of  one;  and  he  falls  to  swearing  at 
;he  Trust. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  O.,"  I  said,  as  he  began 
again  when  I  came  into  his  office,  "that  it  might  be 
as  well  to  quit  cursing  the  Syndicate  till  you've  got 
something  new  to  say  or  something  different  to  rail 
about?  It  seems  to  me  a  man's  likely  to  get  daffy 
if  he  keeps  harping  on — " 

"Oh,  I've  got  it  all  right,  Nance,  be  sure  of  that ! 
I've  got  something  different  to  say  of  them  and 
something  new  to  swear  about.  They've  done  me 
up;  that's  all.  Just  as  they've  fixed  Iringer  and 
Gaffney  and  Howison." 

"Tell  me." 

He  threw  out  his  arms  and  then  let  them  fall  to 
his  side. 

"Oh,  it's  easy,"  he  cried,  "so  easy  that  I  never 
thought  of  it.  They've  just  bought  the  Vaude 
ville  out  of  hand  and  served  notice  on  me  that 
when  my  lease  expires  next  month  they'll  not  be 
able  to  renew  it,  'unfortunately' !  That's  all.  No; 
uot  quite.  In  order  to  kill  all  hope  of  a  new  plan  in 
205 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

me  they've  just  let  it  get  to  be  understood  that  any 
man  or  woman  that  works  for  Obermuller  needn't 
come  round  to  them  at  any  future  time." 
"Phew!    A  blacklist." 

"Not  anything  so  tangible.    It's  just  a  hint,  you 
know,  but  it  works  all  right.    It  works  like — " 
"What  are  you  going  to  do;  what  can  you  do?" 
"Shoot  Tausig  or  myself,  or  both  of  us." 
"Nonsense !" 

"Yes,  of  course,  it's  nonsense,  or  rather  it's  only 
what  I'd  like  to  do.  .  .  .  But  that's  not  the 
question.  Never  mind  about  me.  It's  what  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

He  looked  straight  at  me,  waiting.  But  I  didn't 
answer.  I  was  thinking. 

"You  don't  realize,  Nance,  what  those  fellows  are 
capable  of.  When  Gaffney  told  me,  before  he  gave 
up  and  went  West,  that  there  was  a  genuine  signed 
conspiracy  among  them  to  crush  out  us  inde 
pendents,  I  laughed  at  him.  'It's  a  dream,  Gaff 
ney,3  I  said.  'Forget  it.'  'It's  no  dream,  as  you'll 
find  out  when  your  turn  comes  in  time,'  he  shouted. 
'It's  a  fact,  and  what's  more,  Iringer  once  taxed 
Tausig  to  his  face  with  it ;  told  him  he  knew  there 
was  such  a  document  in  existence,  signed  by  the 
206 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

great  Tausig  himself,  by  Heffelfinger  of  the  P>c 
fie  circuit ;  by  Dixon  of  Chicago,  and  Weinstock  of 
New  Orleans,  binding  themselves  to  force  us  fel 
lows  to  the  wall,  and  specifying  the  per  cent,  of 
profit  each  one  of  'em  should  get  on  any  increase  of 
business;  to  blacklist  every  man  and  woman  that 
worked  for  us ;  to  buy  up  our  debts  and  even  bring 
false  attachments,  when — ' 

"Now,  weren't  there  enough  real  debts  to  satisfy 
'em?  They're  hard  to  please,  if  you  haven't  cred 
itors  enough  to  suit  'em !" 

He  looked  grim,  but  he  didn't  speak. 

"I  don't  believe  it,  anyway,  Mr.  0  ;  and  'tisn't 
good  for  you  to  keep  thinking  about  just  one  thing. 
You'll  land  where  Iringer  did,  if  you  don't  look  out. 
How  did  he  know  about  it,  anyway  ?" 

"There  was  a  leak  in  Tausig's  office.  Iringer 
used  to  be  in  with  them,  and  he  had  it  from  a  clerk 
who — but  never  mind  that.  It's  the  blacklisting 
I'm  talking  about  now.  Gray's  just  been  in  to  see 
me,  to  let  me  know  that  she  quits  at  the  end  of  the 
season.  And  his  Lordship,  too,  of  course.  You're 
not  burdened  with  a  contract,  Nance.  Perhaps 
you'd  better  think  it  over  seriously  for  a  day  or 
two  and  decide  if  it  wouldn't  be  best — " 
207 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

*I  don't  have  to,"  I  interrupted  then. 

"Nance!"  he  cried,  jumping  up,  as  though  he'd 
been  relieved  of  half  his  troubles. 

"I  don't  have  to  think  it  over,"  I  went  on  slow 
ly,  not  looking  at  the  hand  he  held  out  to  me.    "It 
doesn't  take  long  to  know  that  when   you're  be 
tween  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea,  you'd  better  try 
the  devil  rather  than  be  forced  out  into  the  wet." 

"What?— you  don't  mean—" 

I  knew  he  was  looking  at  me  incredulously,  but  I 
just  wouldn't  meet  his  eye. 

"My  staying  with  you  will  do  you  no  good — "  I 
was  hurrying  now  to  get  it  over  with — "and  it 
would  do  me  a  lot  of  harm.  I  think  you're  right, 
Mr.  Obermuller;  I'd  better  just  go  over  to  where 
it's  warm.  They'll  be  glad  to  get  me  and — and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I'll  be  glad  to  get  in  with  the  Syndi 
cate,  even  if  I  can't  make  as  good  terms  as  I  might 
have  by  selling  that  contract,  which — like 'the  fa 
mous  conspiracy  you're  half  mad  about — never  ex 
isted." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  desk.  I  caught 
one  glimpse  of  his  face.  It  was  black;  that  was 
enough  for  me.  I  turned  to  go. 

"Ah,  but  it  did,  Miss  Olden,  it  did !"  he  sneeredo 
208 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"I  won't  believe  it  on  the  word  of  a  man  that's 
•Jeen  in  the  lunatic  asylum  ever  since  he  lost  his  the 
ater." 

"Perhaps  you'll  believe  it  on  mine." 

I  jumped.    "On  yours!" 

"Didn't  that  little  bully,  when  he  lost  his  tem 
per  that  day  at  the  Van  Twiller,  when  we  had  our 
last  fight — didn't  he  pull  a  paper  out  of  his  box 
and  shake  it  in  my  face,  and — " 

"But — you  could  have  them  arrested  for  con 
spiracy  and — " 

"And  the  proof  of  it  could  be  destroyed  and  then 
— but  I  can't  see  how  this  interests  you." 

"No— no,"  I  said  thoughtfully.  "I  only  hap 
pened  to  lump  it  in  with  the  contract  we  haven't — 
you  and  I.  And  as  there's  no  contract,  why  there's 
no  need  of  my  waiting  till  the  end  of  the  season." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you'd — you'd — " 

"If  'twere  done,  'twere  better  it'd  be  done 
quickly,"  I  said  Macbethically. 

He  looked  at  me.  Sitting  there  on  his  desk,  his 
clenched  fist  on  his  knee,  h«  looked  for  a  moment  as 
though  he  was  about  to  fly  at  me.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden  he  slipped  into  his  chair,  leaned  back  and 
laughed. 

209 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

It  wasn't  a  pleasant  laugh,  Mag.  No — wait. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  rest. 

"You  are  so  shrewd,  Olden,  so  awfully  shrewd! 
Your  eye  is  so  everlastingly  out  for  the  main 
chance,  and  you're  still  so  young  that  I  predict  a — 
a  great  future  for  you.  I  might  even  suggest  that 
by  cultivating  Tausig  personally — " 

"You  needn't." 

"No,  you're  right ;  I  needn't.  You  can  discount 
any  suggestion  I  might  make.  You  just  want  to 
be  the  first  to  go  over,  eh?  To  get  there  before 
Gray  does — to  get  all  there  is  in  it  for  the  first 
rebel  that  lays  down  his  arms ;  not  to  come  in  late 
when  submission  is  stale — and  cheap.  Don't  worry 
about  terms,  jou  poor  little  babe  in  the  woods. 
Don't — "  His  own  words  seemed  to  choke  him. 

"Don't  you  think — "    I  began  a  bit  unsteadily. 

"I  think— oh,  what  a  fool  I've  been !" 

That  stiffened  me. 

"Of  course,  you  have,"  I  said  cordially.  "It's 
silly  to  fight  the  push,  isn't  it?  It's  only  the 
cranks  that  get  cocky  and  think  they  can  up 
set  the  fellows  on  top.  The  thing  to  do  is  to 
find  out  which  is  the  stronger — if  you're  a  better 
man  than  the  other  fellow,  down  him.  If  he's  the 
210 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

champion,  enlist  under  him.  But  be  in  it.  What's 
the  use  of  being  a  kicker  all  your  life?  You  only 
let  some  one  else  come  in  for  the  soft  things,  while 
you  stay  outside  and  gnaw  your  finger-nails  and 
plot  and  plan  and  starve.  You  spend  your  life 
hoping  to  live  to-morrow,  while  the  Tausigs  are  liv 
ing  high  to-day.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  be  humble 
if  you  can't  be  arrogant.  If  they've  got  you  in  the 
door,  don't  curse,  but  placate  them.  Think  of 
Gaff  ney  herding  sheep  out  in  Nevada ;  of  Iringer  in 
the  asylum ;  of  Howison — ' 

"Admirable!  admirable!"  he  interrupted  sar 
castically.  "The  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with 
your  harangue  is  that  you've  misconceived  my 
meaning  entirely.  But  I  needn't  enlighten  you 
Good  morning,  Miss  Olden — good-by." 

He  turned  to  his  desk  and  pulled  out  some  pa 
pers.  I  knew  he  wasn't  so  desperately  absorbed  in 
them  as  he  pretended  to  be. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands,"  I  asked,  "and  wish  me 
luck?" 

He  put  down  his  pen.  His  face  wac  white  and 
hard,  but  as  he  looked  at  me  it  gradually  softened 

"I  suppose — I  suppose,  I  am  a  bit  unreasonable 
just  this  minute,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'm  hard  hi* 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

and — and  I  don't  just  know  the  way  out.  Still,  I 
haven't  any  right  to — to  expect  more  of  you  than 
there  is  in  you,  you  poor  little  thing !  It's  not  your 
fault,  but  mine,  that  I've  expected — Oh,  for  God's 
sake — Nance — go,  and  leave  me  alone !" 

I  had  to  take  that  with  me  to  the  Van  Twiller, 
and  it  wasn't  pleasant.  But  Tausig  received  me 
with  open  arms. 

"Got  tired  of  staying  out  in  the  cold — eh?"  he 
grinned. 

"I'm  tired  of  vaudeville,"  I  answered.  "Can't 
you  give  me  a  chance  in  a  comedy?" 

"Hm!     Ambitious,  ain't  you?" 

"Obermuller  has  a  play  all  ready  for  me — writ 
ten  for  me.  He'd  star  me  fast  enough  if  he  had  the 
chance." 

"But  he'll  never  get  the  chance." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"But  I  do.  He's  on  the  toboggan ;  that's  where 
they  all  get,  my  dear,  when  they  get  big-headed 
rough  to  fight  us." 

"But  Obermuller's  not  like  the  others.  He's  not 
so  easy.  And  he  is  so  clever;  why,  the  plot  of  that 
comedy  is  the  bulliest  thing — " 

"You've  read  it — you  remember  it?" 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Oh,  I  know  it  by  heart — my  part  of  it.  You  see, 
he  wouldn't  keep  away  from  me  while  he  was  think 
ing  of  it.  He  kept  consulting  me  about  everything 
in  it.  In  a  way,  we  worked  over  it  together." 

The  little  man  looked  at  me,  slowly  closing  one 
eye.  It  is  a  habit  of  his  when  he's  going  to  do 
something  particularly  nasty. 

"Then,  in  a  way,  as  you  say,  it  is  part  yours." 

"Hardly!  Imagine  Nance  Olden  writing  a  line 
of  a  play !" 

"Still  you — collaborated  ;  that's  the  word.  .  . 
I  say,  my  dear,  if  I  could  read  that  comedy,  and  it 
was — half  what  you  say  it  is,  I  might — I  don't 
promise,  mind — but  I  might  let  you  have  the  part 
that  was  written  for  you  and  put  the  thing  on.  Has 
he  drilled  you  any,  eh?  He  was  the  best  stage- 
manager  v/e  ever  had  before  he  got  the  notion  of 
managing  for  himself — and  ruining  himself." 

"Well,  he's  all  that  yet.     Of  course,  he  has  told 
me,  and  we  agreed  how  the  thing  should  be  done 
As  he'd  write,  you  know,  he'd  read  the  thing  over 
to  me,  and  I— 

"Fine — fine!     A  reading  from  that  fool  Ober- 
muller  would  be  enough  to  open  tlie  eyes  of  a  clever 
woman.    I'd  like  to  read  that  comedy — yes?" 
213 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"But  Obermuller  would  never — " 

"But  Olden  might—" 

"What?" 

"Dictate  the  plot  to  my  secretary,  Mason,  in 
there,"  he  nodded  his  head  back  toward  the  inner 
room.  "She  could  give  him  the  plot  and  as  much 
of  her  own  part  in  full  as  she  could  remember.  You 
know  Mason.  Used  to  be  a  newspaper  man.  Smart 
fellow,  that,  when  he's  sober.  He  could  piece  out 
the  holes — yes  ?" 

I  looked  at  him.  The  little  beast  sat  there,  slowly 
closing  one  eye  and  opening  it  again.  He  looked 
like  an  unhealthy  little  frog,  with  his  bald  head, 
his  thin-lipped  mouth  that  laughed,  while  the 
wrinkles  rayed  away  from  his  cold,  sneering  eyes 
that  had  no  smile  in  them. 

"I — I  wouldn't  like  to  make  an  enemy  of  a  man 
like  Obermuller,  Mr.  Tausig." 

"Bah !    Ain't  I  told  you  he's  en  the  toboggan?" 

"But  you  never  can  tell  with  a  man  like  that. 
Suppose  he  got  into  that  combine  with  HefFelfinger 
and  Dixon  and  Weinstock  ?" 

"What're  you  talking  about?" 

"Well,  it's  what  I've  heard." 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"But  Heffelfinger  and  Dixon  and  Weinstock  are 
all  in  with  us;  who  told  you  that  fairy  story?" 

"Obermuller  himself." 

The  little  fellow  laughed.  His  is  a  creaky,  al 
most  silent  little  laugh ;  if  a  spider  could  laugh  he'd 
laugh  that  way. 

"They're  fooling  him  a  bunch  or  two.  Never  you 
mind  Obermuller.  He's  a  dead  one." 

"Oh,  he  said  that  you  thought  they  were  in  with 
you,  but  that  nothing  but  a  written  agreement 
would  hold  men  like  that.  And  that  you  hadn't 
got." 

"Smart  fellow,  that  Obermuller.  He'd  have  been 
a  good  man  to  have  in  the  business  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  those  independent  ideas  he's  got.  He's  right: 
it  takes—" 

"So  there  is  an  agreement !"  I  shouted,  in  spite 
of  myself,  as  I  leaned  forward. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  or,  rather,  he  let  it  swal 
low  him  again. 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?  Stick  to  the 
business  on  hand.  Get  to  work  on  that  play  with 
Mason  inside.  If  it's  good,  and  we  decide  to  put  it 
on,  we'll  pay  you  five  hundred  dollars  down  in  ad- 


215 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

lition  to  your  salary.  If  it's  rot,  you'll  have  your 
salary  weekly  all  the  time  you're  at  it,  just  the  same 
as  if  you  were  working,  till  I  can  place  you.  In  the 
meantime,  keep  your  ears  and  eyes  open  and  watch 
things,  and  your  mouth  shut.  I'll  speak  to  Mason 
and  he'll  be  ready  for  you  to-morrow  morning. 
Come  round  in  the  morning;  there's  nobody  about 
then,  and  we  want  to  keep  this  thing  dark  till  it's 
done.  Obermuller  mustn't  get  any  idea  what  we're 
up  to.  ...  He  don't  love  you — no- —for 
shaking  him?" 

"He's  furious;  wouldn't  even  say  good-b}'.  I'm 
done  for  with  him,  anyway,  I  guess.  But  what 
could  I  do?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear;  nothing.  You're  a  smart 
little  girl,"  he  chuckled.  "Ta-ta!" 


xni. 

Just  what  I'd  been  hoping  for  I  don't  know,  but 
I  knew  that  my  chance  had  come  that  morning. 

For  a  week  I  had  been  talking  Obermuller's  com 
edy  to  Mason,  the  secretary.  In  the  evenings  I 
stood  about  in  the  wings  and  watched  the  Van  Twil- 
ler  company  in  Brambles.  There  wiis  one  fat 
role  in  it  that  I  just  ached  for,  but  I  lost  all  that 
ache  and  found  another,  when  I  overheard  two  of 
the  women  talking  about  Obermuller  and  me  one 
night. 

"He  found  her  and  made  her,"  one  of  'em  said ; 
"just  dug  her  out  of  the  ground.  See  what  he's 
done  for  her;  taught  her  every  blessed  thing  she 
knows;  wrote  her  mimicking  monologues  for  her; 
gave  her  her  chance,  and — and  now —  Well,  Tau- 
sig  don't  pay  salaries  for  nothing,  and  she  gets 
hers  as  regularly  as  I  draw  mine.  What  more  I 
don't  know.  But  she  hasn't  set  foot  on  the  stage 
yet  under  Tausig,  and  they  say  Obermuller — ' 

I  didn't  get  the  rest  of  it,  so  I  don't  know  what. 

811 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

they  say  about  Obermuller.  I  only  know  what 
they've  said  to  him  about  me.  'Tisn't  hard  to  make 
men  believe  those  things.  But  I  had  to  stand  it. 
What  could  I  do?  I  couldn't  tell  Fred  Obermuller 
that  I  was  making  over  his  play,  soul  and  as  much 
body  as  I  could  remember,  to  Tausig's  secretary. 
He'd  have  found  that  harder  to  believe  than  the 
other  thing. 

It  hasn't  been  a  very  happy  week  for  me,  I  can 
tell  you,  Maggie.  But  I  forgot  it  all,  every  shiver 
and  ache  of  it,  when  I  came  into  the  office  that 
morning,  as  usual,  and  found  Mason  alone. 

Not  altogether  alone — he  had  his  bottle.  And 
he  had  had  it  and  others  of  the  same  family  all  the 
night  before.  The  poor  drunken  wretch  hadn't 
been  home  at  all.  He  was  worse  than  he'd  been  that 
morning  three  days  before,  when  I  had  stood  facing 
him  and  talking  to  him,  while  with  my  hands  be 
hind  my  back  I  was  taking  a  wax  impression  of  the 
lock  of  the  desk ;  and  he  as  unconscious  of  it  all  as 
Tausig  himself. 

The  last  page  I  had  dictated  the  day  before, 

which  he'd  been  transcribing  from  his  notes,  lay  in 

front  of  him;  the  gas  was  still  burning  directly 

above  him,  and  a  shade  he  wore  over  his  weak  eyes 

£18 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

had  been  knocked  awry  as  his  poor  old  bald  head 
went  bumping  down  on  the  type-writer  before  him. 

The  thing  that  favored  me  was  Tausig's  distrust 
of  everybody  connected  with  him.  He  hates  his 
partners  only  a  bit  less  than  he  hates  the  men  out 
side  the  Trust.  The  bigger  and  richer  the  Syndi 
cate  grows,  the  more  power  and  prosperity  it  has, 
the  more  he  begrudges  them  their  share  of  it;  the 
more  he  wants  it  all  for  himself.  He  is  madly  sus 
picious  of  his  clerks,  and  hires  others  to  watch  them, 
to  spy  upon  them.  He  is  continually  moving  his 
valuables  from  place  to  place,  partly  because  he 
trusts  no  man ;  partly  because  he's  so  deathly  afraid 
his  right  hand  will  find  out  what  his  left  is  doing. 
He  is  a  full  partner  of  Braun  and  Lowenthal — 
with  mental  reservations.  He  has  no  conS  ^nce  in 
either  of  them.  Half  his  schemes  he  keeps  from 
them ;  the  other  half  he  tells  them — part  of.  He's 
for  ever  afraid  that  the  Syndicate  of  which  he's  the 
head  will  fall  to  pieces  and  become  another  Syndi 
cate  of  which  he  won't  be  head. 

It  all  makes  him  an  unhappy,  restless  little  beast ; 

but  it  helped  me  to-day.    If  it'd  been  any  question 

of  safe  combinations  and  tangled  things  like  that, 

the  game  would  have  been  all  up  for  Nancy  O.  But 

219 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CAKRIAGE 

in  his  official  safe  Tausig  keeps  only  such  papers  as 
he  wants  Braun  and  Lowenthal  to  see.  And  in  his 
private  desk  in  his  private  office  he  keeps — 

I  stole  past  Mason,  sleeping  with  his  forehead  on 
the  type-writer  keys — he'll  be  lettered  like  the  ob 
elisk  when  he  wakes  up — and  crept  into  the  next 
room  to  see  just  what  Tausig  keeps  in  that  private 
desk  of  his. 

Oh,  yes,  it  was  locked.  But  hadn't  I  been  carry 
ing  the  key  to  it  every  minute  for  the  last  forty- 
eight  hours  ?  There  must  be  a  mine  of  stuff  in  that 
desk  of  Tausig's,  Mag.  The  touch  of  every  paper 
in  it  is  slimy  with  some  dirty  trick,  some  bad  secret, 
some  mean  action.  It's  a  pity  that  I  hadn't  time  to 
go  through  'em  all ;  it  would  have  been  interesting ; 
but  under  a  bundle  of  women's  letters,  which  that 
old  fox  keeps  for  no  good  reason,  I'll  bet,  I  lit  on  a 
paper  that  made  my  heart  go  bumping  like  a  cart 
over  cobbles. 

Yes,  there  it  was,  just  as  Obermuller  had  vowed 
it  was,  with  Tausig's  cramped  little  signature  fol 
lowed  by  Heffelfmger's,  Dixon's  and  Weinstock's ;  a 
scheme  to  crush  the  business  life  out  of  men  by  the 
cleverest,  up-to-date  Trust  deviltry;  a  thing  thai 
our  Uncle  Sammy  just  won't  stand  for. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

And  neither  will  Nancy  Olden,  Miss  Monahan. 

She  grabbed  that  precious  paper  with  a  gasp  of 
ielight  and  closed  the  desk. 

But  she  bungled  a  bit  there,  for  Mason  lifted 
his  head  and  blinked  dazedly  at  her  for  a  moment, 
recognized  her  and  shook  his  head. 

"No — work  to-day,"  he  said. 

"No — I  know.  I'll  just  look  over  what  we've 
done,  Mr.  Mason,"  she  answered  cheerfully. 

His  poor  head  went  down  again  with  a  bob,  and 
she  caught  up  the  type-written  sheets  of  Obermul- 
ler's  play.  She  waited  a  minute  longer;  half  be 
cause  she  wanted  to  make  sure  Mason  was  asleep 
again  before  she  tore  the  sheets  across  and 
crammed  them  down  into  the  waste-basket;  half 
because  she  pitied  the  old  fellow  and  was  sorry 
to  take  advantage  of  his  condition.  But  she  knew 
a  cure  for  this  last  sorry — a  way  she'd  help  him 
later;  and  when  she  danced  out  into  the  hall  she 
was  the  very  happiest  burglar  in  a  world  chock  full 
of  opportunities. 

Oh,  she  was  in  such  a  twitter  as  she  did  it!  All 
that  old  delight  in  doing  somebody  else  up,  a 
vague  somebody  whose  meannesses  she  didn't  know, 
was  as  nothing  to  the  joy  of  doing  Tausig  up.  She 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

was  dancing  on  a  volcano  again,  that  incorrigible 
Nance!  Oh,  but  such  a  volcano,  Maggie!  It 
atoned  for  a  year  of  days  when  there  was  nothing 
doing;  no  excitement,  no  risk,  nothing  to  keep  a 
girl  interested  and  alive. 

And,  Maggie  darlin',  it  was  a  wonderful  vol 
cano,  that  one,  that  last  one,  for  it  worked  both 
ways.  It  paid  up  for  what  I  haven't  done  this  past 
year  and  what  I'll  never  do  again  in  the  years  to 
come.  It  made  up  to  me  for  all  I've  missed  and  all 
I'm  going  to  miss.  It  was  a  reward  of  demerit  for 
not  being  respectable,  and  a  preventive  of  further 
sins.  Oh,  it  was  such  a  volcano  as  never  was.  It 
was  a  drink  and  a  blue  ribbon  in  one.  It  was  a 
bang-up  end  and  a  bully  beginning.  It  was — 

It  was  Tausig  coming  in  as  I  was  going  out. 
Suddenly  I  realized  that,  but  I  was  in  such  a  mad 
whirl  of  excitement  that  I  almost  ran  over  the  lit 
tle  fellow  before  I  could  stop  myself. 

"Phew!  What  a  whirlwind  you  are!"  he  cried. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Tausig,"  I  said  sweetly 
"I  never  dreamed  you'd  be  down  so  early  in  the 
morning." 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"What' re  you  doing  with  the  paper?"  he  de 
manded  suspiciously. 

My  eye  followed  his.  I  could  have  beaten 
Nancy  Olden  in  that  minute  for  not  having  sense 
enough  to  hide  that  precious  agreement,  instead  of 
carrying  it  rolled  up  in  her  hand. 

"Just  taking  it  home  to  go  over  it,"  I  said  care 
lessly,  trying  to  pass  him. 

But  he  barred  my  way. 

"Where's  Mason?"  ho  asked. 

"Poor  Mason!"  I  said.     "He's— he's  asleep." 

"Drunk  again?" 

I  nodded.    How  to  get  away ! 

"That  settles  his  hash.  Out  he  goes  to-day. 
.  .  .  It  seems  to  me  you're  in  a  deuce  of  a 
hurry,"  he  added,  as  I  tried  to  get  out  again. 
"Come  in;  I  want  to  talk  something  over  with 
you." 

"Not  this  morning,"  I  said  saucily.  I  wanted  to 
cry.  "I've  got  an  engagement  to  lunch,  and  I 
want  to  go  over  this  stuff  for  Mason  before  one." 

"Hm!   An  engagement.   Who  with,  now?" 

My  chin  shot  up  in  the  air.  He  laughed,  that 
cold,  noiseless  little  laugh  of  his. 


223 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"But  suppose  I  want  you  to  come  to  lunch  with 
me?" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Tausig.  But  how  could  I 
break  my  engagement  with — " 

"With  Braun?" 

"How  did  you  guess  it?"  I  laughed.  "There's 
no  keeping  anything  from  you." 

He  was  immensely  satisfied  with  his  little  self. 
"I  know  him — that  old  rascal,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
say,  Olden,  just  do  break  that  engagement  with 
Braun." 

"I  oughtn't— really." 

"But  do — eh?  Finish  your  work  here  and  we'll 
go  off  together,  us  two,  at  twelve-thirty,  and  leave 
him  cooling  his  heels  here  when  he  comes."  He 
rubbed  his  hands  gleefully. 

"But  I'm  not  dressed." 

"You'll  do  for  me." 

"But  not  for  me.  Listen:  let  me  hurry  home 
now  and  I'll  throw  Braun  over  and  be  back  here  to 
meet  you  at  twelve-thirty." 

He  pursed  up  his  thin  little  lips  and  shook  hi* 
head.  But  I  slipped  past  him  in  that  minute  and 
got  out  into  the  street. 

"At  twelve-thirty,"  I  called  back  as  I  hurried  off. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  got  around  the  corner  in  a  jiffy.  Oh,  I  could 
hardly  walk,  Mag !  I  wanted  to  fly  and  dance  and 
skip.  I  wanted  to  kick  up  my  heels  as  the  children 
were  doing  in  the  Square,  while  the  organ  ground 
out,  Ain't  It  a  Shame?  I  actually  did  a  step  or 
two  with  them,  to  their  delight,  and  the  first  thing 
I  knew  I  felt  a  bit  of  a  hand  in  mine  like  a  cool 
pink  snowflake  and — 

Oh,  a  baby,  Mag!  A  girl-baby  more  than  a 
year  old  and  less  than  two  years  young ;  too  little  to 
talk ;  too  big  not  to  walk ;  facing  the  world  with  a 
winning  smile  and  jabbering  things  in  her  soft  lit 
tle  lingo,  knowing  that  every  woman  she  meets  will 
understand. 

I  did,  all  right.  She  was  saying  to  me  as  she 
kicked  out  her  soft,  heelless  little  boot : 

"Nancy  Olden,  I  choose  you.  Nancy  Olden,  I 
love  you.  Nancy  Olden,  I  dare  you  not  to  love  me. 
Nancy  Olden,  I  defy  you  not  to  laugh  back  at  me !" 

Where  in  the  world  she  dropped  from,  heaven 
knows.  The  organ-grinder  picked  up  the  shafts 
of  his  wagon  and  trundled  it  away.  The  picca 
ninnies  melted  like  magic.  But  that  gaj  little  flirt, 
about  a  year  and  a  half  old,  just  held  on  to  my 
finger  and  gabbled — poetry. 
225 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  didn't  realize  just  then  that  she  was  a  lost, 
strayed  or  stolen.  I  expected  every  moment  some 
nurse  or  conceited  mamma  to  appear  and  drag  her 
away  from  me.  And  I  looked  down  at  her — oh,  she 
was  just  a  little  bunch  of  soft  stuff;  her  face  was  a 
giggling  dimple,  framed  in  a  big  round  hat-halo, 
that  had  fallen  from  her  chicken-blond  head;  and 
her  white  dress,  with  the  blue  ribbons  at  the  shoul 
ders,  was  just  a  little  bit  dirty.  I  like  'em  a  little 
bit  dirty.  Why?  Perhaps  because  I  can  imagine 
having  a  little  coquette  of  my  own  a  bit  dirty  like 
that,  and  can't  just  see  Nance  Olden  with  a  spick- 
and-span  clean  baby,  all  feathers  and  lace,  like  a 
bored  little  grown-up. 

"You're  a  mouse,"  I  gurgled  down  at  her. 
"You're  a  sweetheart.  You're  a — " 

And  suddenly  I  heard  a  cry  and  rush  behind  me. 

It  was  a  false  alarm;  just  a  long-legged  girl  of 
twelve  rushing  round  the  corner,  followed  by  a  lot 
of  others.  It  hadn't  been  meant  for  me,  of  course, 
but  in  the  second  when  I  had  remembered  that  pre 
cious  paper  and  Tausig's  rage  when  he  should  miss 
it,  I  had  pulled  my  hand  away  from  that  bit  baby's 
and  started  to  run. 

The  poor  little  tot!     There  isn't  any  reason  in 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

the  world  for  the  fancies  they  take  any  more  than 
for  our  own ;  eh,  Mag?  Why  should  she  have  been 
attracted  to  me  just  because  I  was  so  undignified  as 
to  dance  with  the  piccaninnies? 

But  do  you  know  what  that  little  thing  did?  She 
thought  I  was  playing  with  her.  She  gave  a  crow 
of  delight  and  came  bowling  after  me. 

That  finished  me.  I  stooped  and  picked  her  up 
in  my  arms,  throwing  her  up  in  the  air  to  hear  her 
crow  and  feel  her  come  down  again. 

"Mouse,"  I  said,  "we'll  just  have  a  little  trip  to 
gether.  The  nurse  that'd  lose  you  deserves  to 
worry  till  you're  found.  The  mother  that's  lucky 
enough  to  own  you  will  be  benefited  hereafter  by  a 
sharp  scare  on  your  account  just  now.  Come  on, 
sweetheart !" 

Oh,  the  feel  of  a  baby  in  your  arms,  Mag!  It 
makes  the  Cruelty  seem  a  perfectly  unreal  thing,  a 
thing  one  should  be  unutterably  ashamed  of  imag 
ining,  of  accusing  human  nature  of;  a  thing  only 
•  an  irredeemably  vile  thing  could  imagim  Just  the 
weight  of  that  little  body  riding  like  a  bj*>ny  boat 
at  anchor  on  your  arm,  just  the  cocky  litt!  *  way  it 
sits  up,  chirping  and  confident;  just  thfc  light 
touch  of  a  bit  of  a  hand  on  your  collar ;  just  ".hat  fe 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

enough  to  push  down  brick  walls;  to  destroy  pic 
tures  of  bruised  and  maimed  children  that  endure 
after  the  injuries  are  healed ;  to  scatter  records  that 
even  I — I,  Nancy  Olden — can't  believe  and  be 
lieve,  too,  that  other  women  have  carried  their 
babies,  as  I  did  some  other  woman's  baby,  across 
the  Square. 

On  the  other  side  I  set  her  down.  I  didn't  want 
to.  I  was  greedy  of  every  moment  that  I  had  her. 
But  I  wanted  to  get  some  change  ready  before 
climbing  up  the  steps  to  the  L-station. 

She  clutched  my  dress  as  we  stood  there  a  minute 
in  a  perfectly  irresistible  way.  I  know  now  why 
men  marry  baby -women:  it's  to  feel  that  delicious, 
helpless  clutch  of  weak  fingers;  the  clutch  of  de 
pendence,  of  trust,  of  appeal. 

I  looked  down  at  her  with  that  same  silly  adora 
tion  I've  seen  on  Molly's  face  for  her  poor,  lacking, 
twisted  boy.  At  least,  I  did  in  the  beginning.  But 
gradually  the  expression  of  my  face  must  have 
changed ;  for  all  at  once  I  discovered  what  had  been 
done  to  me. 

My  purse  was  gone. 

Yes,  Maggie  Monahan,  clean  gone !  My  pocket 
had  been  as  neatly  picked  as  I  myself — well,  never 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

mind,  as  what.  I  threw  back  my  head  and  laugheO 
aloud.  Nance  Olden,  the  great  doer-up,  had  been 
done  up  so  cleverly,  so  surely,  so  prettily,  that  she 
hadn't  had  an  inkling  of  it. 

I  wished  I  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  clever  girl 
that  did  it.  A  girl — of  course,  it  was!  Do  you 
think  any  boy's  fingers  could  do  a  job  like  that 
and  me  not  even  know? 

But  I  didn't  stop  to  wish  very  long.  Here  was  I 
with  the  thing  I  valued  most  in  the  world  still 
clutched  in  my  hand,  and  not  a  nickel  to  my  name 
to  get  me,  the  paper,  and  the  baby  en  our  way. 

It  was  the  baby,  of  course,  that  decided  me.  You 
can't  be  very  enterprising  when  you're  carrying  a 
pink  lump  of  sweetness  that's  all  a-smile  at  the  mo 
ment,  but  may  get  all  a-tear  the  next. 

"It's  you  for  the  nearest  police  station,  you 
young  tough !"  I  said,  squeezing  her.  "I  can't 
take  you  home  now  and  show  you  to  Mag." 

But  she  giggled  and  gurgled  back  at  me,  the 
abandoned  thing,  as  though  the  police  station  was 
just  the  properest  place  for  a  young  lady  of  her 
years. 

It  was  not  so  very  near,  either,  that  station.  My 
ami  ached  when  I  got  thr^e  from  carrying  her,  but 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

uny  heart  ached,  too,  to  leave  her.  I  told  the  matron 
how  and  where  the  little  thing  had  picked  me  up. 
At  first  she  wouldn't  leave  me,  but — the  fickle  little 
*hing — a  glass  of  milk  transferred  all  her  smiles 
\nd  wiles  to  the  matron.  Then  we  both  went  over 
her  clothes  to  find  a  name  or  an  initial  or  a  laundry 
mark.  But  we  found  nothing.  The  matron  offered 
me  a  glass  of  milk,  too,  but  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
gone.  She  was  a  nice  matron ;  so  nice  that  I  was 
just  about  to  ask  her  for  the  loan  of  car-fare 
when — 

When  I  heard  a  voice,  Maggie,  in  the  office  ad 
joining.  I  knew  that  voice  all  right,  and  I  knew 
that  I  had  to  make  a  decision  quick. 

I  did.  I  threw  the  whole  thing  into  the  lap  of 
Fate.  And  when  I  opened  the  door  and  faced  him 
I  was  smiling. 

Oh,  yes,  it  was  Tausig. 


230 


XIV. 

He  started  as  though  he  couldn't  believe  his 
when  he  saw  me.     "The  Lord  hath  delivered  mine 
enemy  into  my  hand,"  shone  in  his  evil  little  face. 

"Why,  Mr.  Tausig,"  I  cried,  before  he  could  get 
his  breath.  "How  odd  to  meet  you  here !  Did  you 
find  a  baby,  too?" 

"Did  I  find — "  He  glared  at  me.  "I  find  you ; 
that's  enough.  Now — ' 

"But  the  luncheon  was  to  be  at  twelve-thirty,"  I 
laughed.  "And  I  haven't  changed  my  dress  yet." 

"You'll  change  it  all  right  for  something  not  se 
becoming  if  you  don't  shell  out  that  paper." 

"Paper?" 

"Yes,  paper.     Look  here,  if  you  give  it  back  to 
me  this  minute — now — I'll  not  prosecute  you  for— 
"or—" 

"For  the  sake  of  my  reputation?"  I  suggested 
ooftly. 

"Yes."   He  looked  doubtfully  at  me,  mistrusting 
the  amiable  deference  of  my  manner. 
231 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

''That  would  be  awfully  good  of  you,"  I  mur 
mured. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  watched  me  as  though  he 
wasn't  sure  which  way  Pd  jump  the  next  moment. 

"I  wonder  what  could  induce  you  to  be  so  for 
giving,"  I  went  on  musingly.  "What  sort  of  paper 
is  this  you  miss  ?  It  must  be  valuable — " 

"Yes,  it's  valuable  all  right.  Come  on,  now! 
Quit  your  fooling  and  get  down  to  business.  I'm 
going  to  have  that  paper." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Tausig,"  I  said  impulsively, 
i£if  I  were  you,  and  anybody  had  stolen  a  valuable 
paper  from  me,  I'd  have  him  arrested.  I  would.  I 
should  not  care  a  rap  what  the  public  exposure  did 
co  his  reputation,  so  long — so  long,"  I  grinned 
right  up  at  him,  "so  long  as  it  didn't  hurt  me,  my 
self,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law." 

Mad?  Oh,  he  was  hopping!  A  German  swear 
word  burst  from  him.  I  don't  know  what  it  meant, 
but  I  can  imagine. 

"Look  here,  I  give  you  one  more  chance,"  he 
squeaked ;  "if  you  don't — " 

"What'll  you  do?" 

I  was  sure  I  had  him.  I  was  sure,  from  the  very 
whisper  in  which  he  had  spoken,  that  the  last  thing 
233 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

in  the  world  he  wanted  was  to  have  that  agreement 
made  public  by  my  arrest.  But  I  tripped  up  on 
one  thing.  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  middle  v,\iy 
,for  a  man  with  money. 

His  manner  changed. 

"Nance  Olden,"  he  said  aloud  now,  "I  charge 
you  with  stealing  a  valuable  private  paper  of  mine 
from  my  desk.  Here,  Sergeant !" 

I  hadn't  particularly  noticed  the  Sergeant  stand 
ing  at  the  other  door  with  his  back  to  us.  But  from 
the  way  he  came  at  Tausig's  call  I  knew  he'd  had  a 
private  talk  with  him,  and  I  knew  he'd  found  the 
middle  way. 

"This  girl's  taken  a  paper  of  mine.  I  want  her 
searched,"  Tausig  cried. 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "that  you'll  sign  your 
name  to  such  a  charge  against  me  ?" 

He  didn't  answer.  He  had  pulled  the  Sergeant 
down  and  was  whispering  in  his  ear.  I  knew  what 
that  meant.  It  meant  a  special  pull  and  a  speck! 
way  of  doing  things  and — 

"You'll  do  well,  my  girl,  to  give  up  Mr.  Tausig's 
property  to  him,"  the  Sergeant  said  stiffly. 

"But  what  have  I  got  that  belongs  to  him?"  I 
demanded 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

He  grinned  and  shrugged  his  big  shoulders. 

"We've  a  way  of  finding  out,  you  know,  here* 
Give  it  up  or — " 

"But  what  does  he  say  I've  taken?  What  charge 
is  there  against  me  ?  Have  you  the  right  to  search 
any  woman  who  walks  in  here?  And  what  in  the 
world  would  I  want  a  paper  of  Tausig's  for?" 

"You  won't  give  it  up  then  ?"    Pie  tapped  a  bell. 

A  woman  came  in.  I  had  a  bad  minute  there, 
but  it  didn't  last ;  it  wasn't  the  matron  I'd  brought 
the  baby  to. 

"You'll  take  this  girl  into  the  other  room  and 
search  her  thoroughly.  The  thing  we're  looking 
for — "  The  Sergeant  turned  to  Tausig. 

"A  small  paper,"  he  said  eagerly.  "A — a  con 
tract — just  a  single  sheet  of  legal  cap  paper  it  was, 
type-written  and  signed  by  myself  and  some  other 
gentlemen,  and  folded  twice." 

The  woman  looked  at  me.  She  was  a  bit  hard- 
mouthed,  with  iron-gray  hair,  but  her  eyes  looked 
as  though  they'd  seen  a  lot  and  learned  not  to 
flinch,  though  they  still  felt  like  it.  I  knew  that 
kind  of  look — I'd  seen  it  at  the  Cruelty. 

"What  an  unpleasant  job  this  of  yours  is,"  I  said 
to  her,  smiling  up  at  her  for  all  the  world  as  that 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

tike  of  a  baby  had  smiled  at  me,  and  watching  her 
melt  just  as  I  had.  "I'll  not  make  it  a  bit  harder. 
This  thing's  all  a  mistake.  Which  way?  .  . 
I'll  come  back,  Mr.  Tausig,  to  receive  your  apol 
ogy,  but  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  go  to  lunch 
after  this." 

He  growled  a  wrathful,  resenting  mouthful. 
But  he  looked  a  bit  puzzled  just  the  same. 

He  looked  more  puzzled  yet,  even  bewildered, 
when  we  came  back  into  the  main  office  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  later,  the  woman  and  I,  and  she  reported 
that  no  paper  of  any  kind  had  she  found. 

Me?  Oh,  I  was  sweet  amiability  personified  with 
the  woman  and  with  the  Sergeant,  who  began  to 
back-water  furiously.  But  with  Tausig — 

What?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  not  on, 
Mag?  Oh,  dear,  dear,  it's  well  you  had  that  beau 
tiful  wig  of  red  hair  that  puts  even  Carter's  in  the 
shade ;  for  you'd  never  have  been  a  success  in — in 
other  businesses  I  might  name. 

Bamboozled  the  woman?  Not  a  bit  of  it;  you 
can't  deceive  women  with  mouths  and  eyes  like  that. 
It  was  just  that  I'd  had  a  flash  of  genius  in  the 
minute  I  heard  Tausig's  voice,  and  in  spite  of  my 
being  so  sure  he  wouldn't  have  me  arrested  I'd — 
235 


IN   THE   BISHOPS   CARRIAGE 

Guess,  M&g,  guess !  There  was  only  one  way. 

The  baby,  of  course !  In  the  moment  I  had — it 
wasn't  long — I'd  stooped  down,  pretending  to  kiss 
that  cherub  good-by,  and  in  a  jiffy  I'd  pinned  that 
precious  paper  with  a  safety-pin  to  the  baby's  un 
der-petticoat,  preferring  that  risk  to — 

Risk !  I  should  say  it  was.  And  now  it  was  up 
to  Nance  to  make  good. 

While  Tausig  insisted  and  explained  and  ex 
postulated  and  at  last  walked  out  with  the  Sergeant 
— giving  me  a  queer  last  look  that  was  half -curs 
ing,  half-placating — I  stood  chatting  sweetly  with 
the  woman  who  had  searched  me. 

I  didn't  know  just  how  far  I  might  go  with  her. 
She  knew  the  paper  wasn't  on  me,  and  I  could  see 
she  was  disposed  to  believe  I  was  as  nice  as  she'd 
have  liked  me  to  be.  But  she'd  had  a  lot  of  experi 
ence  and  she  knew,  as  most  women  do  even  without 
experience,  that  if  there's  not  always  fire  where 
there  is  smoke,  it's  because  somebody's  been  clever 
enough  and  quick  enough  to  cover  the  blaze. 

"Well,  good-by,"  I  said,  putting  out  my  hand. 
"It's  been  disagreeable  but  I'm  obliged  to  you  for — 
why,  where's  my  purse!  We  must  have  left  it — " 


236 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Ard  I  turned  to  go  back  into  the  room  where  I'd 
undressed. 

"You  didn't  have  any." 

The  words  came  clear  and  cold  and  positive.  Her 
tone  was  like  an  icicle  down  my  back. 

"I  didn't  have  any !"  I  exclaimed.  "Why,  I  cer 
tainly—" 

"You  certainly  had  no  purse,  for  I  should  have 
seen  it  and  searched  it  if  you  had." 

Now,  what  do  you  think  of  a  woman  like  that? 

"Nancy  Olden,"  I  said  to  myself,  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,  "you've  met  your  match  right  here. 
When  a  woman  knows  a  fact  and  states  it  with  such 
quiet  conviction,  without  the  least  unnecessary  em 
phasis  and  not  a  superfluous  word,  'ware  that 
woman.  There's  only  one  game  to  play  to  let  you 
hang  round  here  a  bit  longer  and  find  out  what's 
become  of  the  baby.  Play  it !" 

I  looked  at  her  with  respect ;  it  was  both  real  and 
feigned. 

"Of  course,  you  must  be  right,"  I  said  humbly. 
'T  know  you  wouldn't  be  lively  to  make  a  mistake, 
but,  just  to  convince  me,  do  you  mind  letting  me  go 
back  to  look?" 


237 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said  placidly.     "If  I  go  with 
you  there's  no  reason  why  you  should  not  look." 

Oh,  Mag,  it  was  hard  lines  looking.     Why? — 
Why,  because  the  place  was  so  bare  and  so  small  „ 
There  were  so  few  things  to  move  and  it  took  such 
a  short  time,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  do  and  pretend 
to  do,  that  I  was  in  despair. 

"You  must  be  right,"  I  said  at  length,  looking 
woefully  up  at  her. 

"Yes ;  I  knew  I  was,"  she  said  steadily. 

"I  must  have  lost  it." 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  hope  there.    I  turned  to  go. 

"I'll  lend  you  a  nickel  to  get  home,  if  you'll  leave 
me  your  address,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

Oh,  that  admirable  woman!  She  ought  to  be 
ruling  empires  instead  of  searching  thieves.  Look 
at  the  balance  of  her,  Mag.  My  best  acting 
hadn't  shaken  her.  She  hadn't  that  fatal  curiosity 
to  understand  motives  that  wrecks  so  many  who 
'deal  with — we'll  call  them  the  temporarily  un- 
straight.  She  was  satisfied  just  not  to  let  me  get 
ahead  of  her  in  the  least  particular.  But  she  wasn't 
mean,  and  she  would  lend  me  a  nickel — not  an  emo 
tionally  extravagant  ten-cent  piece,  but  just  e 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

nickel — on  the  chance  that  I  was  what  I  seemed  to 
be. 

Oh,  I  did  admire  her ;  but  I'd  have  been  more  en 
thusiastic  about  it  if  I  could  have  seen  my  way  clear 
to  the  baby  and  the  paper. 

I  took  the  nickel  and  thanked  her,  but  effusive 
ness  left  her  unmoved.  A  wholesome,  blue-gowned 
rock  with  a  neat,  fuW-bibbed  white  apron;  that's 
what  she  was ! 

And  still  I  lingered.  Fancy  Nance  Olden  just 
heartbroken  at  being  compelled  to  leave  a  police 
station ! 

But  there  was  nothing  for  it.  Go,  I  had  to.  My 
head  was  a-whirl  with  schemes  coming  forward  with 
suggestions  and  being  dismissed  as  unsuitable;  my 
thoughts  were  flying  about  at  such  a  dizzy  rate 
wliile  I  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  the  woman's 
patient  hand  on  the  knob  and  her  watchful  eyes  on 
me,  that  I  actually — 

Mag,  I  actually  didn't  hear  the  matron's  voice 
the  first  time  she  spoke. 

The  second  time,  though,  I  turned — so  happy  I 
could  not  keep  the  tremor  out  of  my  voice. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  long  ago,"  she  said. 

Oh,  we  were  friends,  we  two!  We'd  chummed 
239 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

over  a  baby,  which  for  women  is  like  what  taking  ft 
drink  together  is  for  men.  The  admirable  dragon 
in  the  blue  dress  didn't  waver  a  bit  because  her  su 
perior  spoke  pleasantly  to  me.  She  only  watched 
and  listened. 

Which  puts  you  in  a  difficult  position  when  \our 
name's  Nanc?e  0!den — you  have  to  tell  the  truth. 

"I've  been  detained,"  I  said  with  dignity, 
"against  my  wish.  But  that's  all  over.  I'm  going 
new.  Good-by."  I  nodded  and  caught  up  my 
skirt.  "Oh!"  I  paused  just  as  the  admirable  dra 
gon  was  closing  the  door  on  me.  "Is  the  baby 
asleep?  I  wonde*-  if  I  might  see  her  once  more." 

My  heart  was  boating  like  an  engine  gone  mad, 
in  spite  of  my  careless  tone,  and  there  was  a  buzz 
ing  in  my  ears  thit  deafened  me.  But  I  managed 
to  stand  still  and  listen,  and  then  to  walk  off,  as 
though  it  didn't  m  atter  in  the  least  to  me,  while  her 
words  came  smashing  the  hope  out  of  me. 

"We've  sent  her  with  an  officer  back  to  the  neigh 
borhood  where  you  found  her.  He'll  find  out  where 
she  belongs,  no  doubt.  Good  day." 


240 


XV. 


Ah  me,  Maggie,  the  miserable  Nance  that  went 
away  from  that  station !  To  have  had  your  future 
in  your  grasp,  like  that  one  of  the  Fates  with  the 
string,  and  then  to  have  it  snatched  from  you  by  an 
impish  breeze  and  blown  away,  goodness  knows 
where ! 

I  don't  know  just  which  way  I  turned  after  I 
left  that  station.  I  didn't  care  where  I  went. 
Nothing  I  could  think  of  gave  me  any  comfort.  I 
tried  to  fancy  myself  coming  home  to  you.  I  tried 
to  see  myself  going  down  to  tell  the  whole  thing  to 
Obermuller.  But  I  couldn't  do  that.  There  was 
only  one  thing  I  wanted  to  say  to  Fred  Obermul 
ler,  and  that  thing  I  couldn't  say  now. 

But  Nance  Olden's  not  the  girl  to  go  round  long 
like  a  molting  hen.  Thert  was  only  one  chance  in 
a  hundred,  and  that  was  the  one  I  took,  of  course. 

"Back  to  the  Square  where  you  found  the  baby, 
Nance!"  I  cried  to  myself.  "There's  the  chance 
that  that  admirable  dragon  has  had  her  suspicions 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

aroused  by  your  connection  with  the  baby,  whicK 
she  hadn't  known  before,  and  has  already  dutifully 
notified  the  Sergeant.  There's  the  chance  that  the 
baby  is  home  by  now,  and  the  paper  found  by  her 
mother  will  be  turned  over  to  her  papa ;  and  then 
it's  good-by  to  your  scheme.  There's  the  chance 
that—" 

But  in  the  heart  of  me  I  didn't  believe  in  any 
chance  but  one — the  chance  that  I'd  find  that 
blessed  baby  and  get  my  fingers  just  once  more  on 
that  precious  paper. 

I  blew  in  the  A.  D  's  nickel  on  a  cross-town  car 
and  got  back  to  the  little  Square.  There  was  an 
other  organ-grinder  there  grinding  out  coon-songs, 
to  which  other  piccaninnies  danced.  But  nary  a 
little  white  bundle  of  fluff  caught  hold  of  my  hand. 
I  walked  that  Square  till  my  feet  were  sore.  It- 
was  hot.  My  throat  was  parched.  I  was  hungry, 
My  head  ached.  I  was  hopeless.  And  yet  I  just 
couldn't  give  it  up.  I  had  asked  so  many  children 
and  nurse-maids  whether  they'd  heard  of  the  baby 
lost  that  morning  and  brought  back  by  an  office^ 
that  they  began  to  look  at  me  as  though  I  was  not 
quite  right  in  my  mind.  The  maids  grabbed  the 
children  if  they  started  to  come  near  me,  and  the 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

children  stared  at  me  with  big  round  eyes,  as 
though  they'd  been  told  I  was  an  ogre  who  might 
eat  them. 

I  was  hungry  enough  to.  The  little  fruit- 
stand  at  the  entrance  had  a  fascination  for  me.  I 
found  m}Tself  there  time  and  again,  till  I  got  afraid 
I  might  actually  try  to  get  off  with  a  peach  or  a 
bunch  of  grapes.  That  thought  haunted  me. 
Fancy  Nance  Olden  starved  and  blundering  into  the 
cheapest  and  most  easily  detected  species  of  thiev 
ing! 

I  suppose  great  generals  in  their  hour  of  defeat 
imagine  themselves  doing  the  feeblest,  foolishest 
things.  As  I  sat  there  on  the  bench,  gazing  before 
me,  I  saw  the  whole  thing — Nancy  Olden,  after  all 
her  bragging,  her  skirmishing,  her  hairbreadth 
scapes  and  successes,  arrested  in  broad  daylight 
and  before  witnesses  for  having  stolen  a  cool,  wet 
bunch  of  grapes,  worth  a  nickel,  for  her  hot,  dry, 
hungering  throat !  I  saw  the  policeman  that'd  dc 
it ;  he  looked  like  that  Sergeant  Mulhill  I  met  'wayf 
'way  back  in  Latimer's  garden.  I  saw  the  officer 
that'd  receive  me;  he  had  blue  eyes  like  the  detec 
tive  that  came  for  me  to  the  Manhattan.  I  saw  the 
jailer — oh,  she  was  the  A.  D  ,  all  right 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

who'd  receive  me  without  the  slightest  emotion, 
show  me  to  a  cell  and  lock  the  door,  as  calm,  as 
little  triumphant  or  affected,  as  though  I  hadn't 
once  outwitted  that  cleverest  of  creatures — and 
outwitted  myself  in  forestalling  her.  I  saw — 

Mag,  guess  what  I  saw!  No,  truly;  what  I 
really  saw?  It  made  me  jump  to  my  feet  and  grab 
it  with  a  squeal. 

I  saw  my  own  purse  lying  on  the  gravel  almost 
at  my  feet,  near  the  little  fruit-stand  that  had 
tempted  me. 

Blank  empty  it  was,  stripped  clean,  not  a  penny 
left  in  it,  not  a  paper,  not  a  stamp,  not  even  my 
key.  Just  the  same  I  was  glad  to  have  it.  It  linked 
me  in  a  way  to  the  place.  The  clever  little  girl  that 
had  stolen  it  had  been  here  in  this  park,  on  this 
very  spot.  The  thought  of  that  cute  young  Nance 
Olden  distracted  my  mind  a  minute  from  my  worry 
- — and,  oh,  Maggie  darlin',  I  was  worrying  so ! 

I  walked  up  to  the  fruit-stand  with  the  purse  in 
my  hand.  The  old  fellow  who  kept  it  looked  up 
with  an  inviting  smile.  Lord  knows,  he  needn't 
have  encouraged  me  to  buy  if  I'd  had  a  penny. 

"I  want  to  ask  you,"  I  said,  "if  you  remember 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

selling  a  lot  of  good  tilings  to  a  little  girl  who  had 
a  purse  this — this  morning?" 

I  showed  it  to  him,  and  he  turned  it  over  in  his 
crippled  old  hands. 

"It  was  full  then — or  fuller,  anyway,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  get  her  into  trouble — 
that  little  girl?"  he  asked  cautiously. 

I  laughed.     "Not  I.     I— myself— " 

I  was  going  to  say — well,  you  can  imagine  what 
I  was  going  to  say,  and  that  I  didn't  say  it  or  any 
thing  like  it. 

"Well — there  she  is,  Kitty  Wilson,  over  yonder,'5 
he  said. 

I  gasped,  it  was  so  unexpected.  And  I  turned  to 
look.  There  on  one  of  the  benches  sat  Kitty  Wil 
son.  If  I  hadn't  been  blind  as  a  bat  and  full  of 
trouble — oh,  it  thickens  your  wits,  does  trouble, 
and  blinds  your  eyes  and  muffles  your  ears! — I'd 
have  suspected  something  at  the  mere  sight  of  her. 
For  there  sat  Kitty  Wilson  enthroned,  a  hatless, 
lank  little  creature  about  twelve,  and  near  her, 
clustered  thick  as  ants  around  a  lump  of  sugar,  was 
a  crowd  of  children,  black  and  white,  boys  and  girls. 


245 


IN   THE   BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

For  Kitty — that  deplorable  Kitty — had  money  to 
burn;  or  what  was  even  more  effective  at  her  age, 
she  had  goodies  to  give  away.  Her  lap  was  full  of 
spoils.  She  had  a  sample  of  every  good  thing  the 
fruit-stand  offered.  Her  cheeks  and  lips  were 
smeary  with  candy.  Her  dress  was  stained  with 
fruit.  The  crumbs  of  cake  lingered  still  on  her 
chin  and  apron.  And  Kitty — I  love  a  generous 
thief — was  treating  the  gang. 

It  helped  itself  from  her  abundant  lap ;  it 
munched  and  gobbled  and  asked  for  more.  It  was 
a  riot  of  a  high  old  time.  Even  the  birds  were  hop 
ping  about  as  near  as  they  dared,  picking  up  the 
crumbs,  and  the  squirrels  had  peanuts  to  throw  to 
the  birds. 

And  all  on  Nancy  Olden's  money! 

I  laughed  till  I  shook.  It  was  good  to  laugh. 
Nancy  Olden  isn't  accustomed  to  a  long  dose  of  the 
doleful,  and  it  doesn't  agree  with  her.  I  strolled 
over  to  where  my  guests  were  banqueting. 

You  see,  Mag,  that's  where  I  shouldn't  rank  with 
the  A.  D.  I'm  too  inquisitive.  I  want  to  know 
how  the  other  fellow  in  the  case  feels  and  thinks.  It 
isn't  enough  for  me  to  see  him  act. 


246 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Kitty,"  I  said — somehow  a  twelve-year-old 
makes  you  feel  more  of  a  grown-up  than  a  twelve 
months-old  does — "I  hope  you're  having  a  good 
time,  Kitty  Wilson,  but — haven't  you  lost  some 
thing?" 

She  was  chewing  at  the  end  of  a  long  string  of 
black  candy — shoe-strings,  all  right,  the  stuff  looks 
like — and  she  was  eating  just  because  she  didn't 
want  to  stop.  Goodness  knows,  she  was  full  enough. 
Her  jaws  stopped,  though,  suddenly,  as  she  looked 
from  the  empty  purse  in  my  outstretched  hand  to 
me,  and  took  me  in. 

Oh,  I  know  that  pause  intimately.  It  says; 
"Wait  a  minute,  till  I  get  my  breath,  and  I'll  know 
how  much  you  know  and  just  what  lie  to  tell  you." 

But  she  changed  her  mind  when  she  saw  my  face 
You  know,  Mag,  if  there's  a  thing  that's  fixed  in 
your  memory  it's  the  face  of  the  body  you've  done 
up.  The  respectables  have  their  rogues'  gallery^ 
but  we,  that  is,  the  light-fingered  brigade,  have  got 
a  fools'  gallery  to  correspond  to  it. 

In  which  of  'em  is  my  picture?  Now,  Margaret, 
that's  mean.  You  know  my  portrait  hangs  in  bothc 

I  looked  down  on  the  little  beggar  that  had' 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

painted  me  for  the  second  salon,  and  lo,  in  a  flasK 
she  was  on  her  feet,  the  lapful  of  good  things  tum 
bled  to  the  ground,  and  Kitty  was  off. 

I  was  bitterly  disappointed  in  that  girl,  Mag !  I 
was  altogether  mistaken  in  my  diagnosis  of  her. 
Hers  is  only  a  physical  cleverness,  a  talented  dex 
terity.  She  had  no  resource  in  time  of  danger  but 
her  legs.  And  legs  will  not  carry  a  grafter  half  so 
far  as  a  good,  quick  tongue  and  a  steady  head. 

She  halted  at  a  safe  distance  and  glared  back  at 
me.  Her  hostility  excited  the  crowd  of  children — 
her  push — against  me,  and  the  braver  ones  jeered 
the  things  Kitty  only  looked,  while  the  thrifty  ones 
stooped  and  gathered  up  the  spoil. 

"Tell  her  I  wouldn't  harm  her,"  I  said  to  one  of 
tier  lieutenants. 

"She  says  she  won't  hurt  ye,  Kit,"  the  child 
screamed. 

"She  dassent,"  yelled  back  Kitty,  the  valiant 
s<She  knows  Pd  peach  on  her  about  the  kid." 

"Kid!  What  kid?"  I  cried,  all  a-fire. 

"The  kid  ye  swiped  this  mornin'.  Yah!  I  told 
the  cop  what  brought  her  back  how  ye  took  her  jest 
as  I—99 


848 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Kitty!"  I  cried.  "You  treasure!"  And  with 
all  my  might  I  ran  after  her. 

Silly?  Of  course  it  was.  I  might  have  known 
what  the  short  skirts  above  those  thin  legs  meanto 
I  couldn't  come  within  fifty  feet  of  her.  I  halted, 
panting,  and  she  paused,  too,  dancing  tantaliz- 
ingly  half  a  block  away. 

What  to  do?  I  wished  I  had  another  purse  to 
bestow  on  that  sad  Kitty,  but  I  had  nothing,  abso 
lutely  nothing,  except — all  at  once  I  remembered  it 
— that  little  pin  you  gave  me  for  Christmas,  Mag. 
I  took  it  off  and  turned  to  appeal  to  the  nearest  one 
of  the  flying  body-guard  that  had  accompanied  us. 

"You  run  on  to  her  and  tell  her  that  if  she'll  show 
me  the  house  where  that  baby  lives  I'll  give  her  this 
pin." 

He  sped  on  ahead  and  parleyed  with  Kit;  and 
while  they  talked  I  held  aloft  the  little  pin  so  that 
Kit  might  see  the  price. 

She  hesitated  so  long  that  I  feared  she'd  slip 
through  my  hands,  but  a  sudden  rival  voice  piping 
out,  "I'll  show  ye  the  house,  Missus,"  was  too  much 
for  her. 

So,  with  Kit  at  a  safe  distance  in  advance  tc 
guard  against  treachery,  and  a  large  and  enthusias- 
249 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S   CARRIAGE 

(dc  following,  I  crossed  the  street,  turned  a  corner, 
walked  down  one  block  and  half  up  another,  and 
halted  before  a  three-story  brownstone. 

I  flew  up  the  stairs,  leaving  my  escort  behind, 
and  rang  the  bell.  It  wasn't  so  terribly  swagger  a 
place,  which  relieved  me  some. 

"I  want  to  see  the  lady  whose  baby  was  lost  this 
morning,"  I  said  to  the  maid  that  opened  the  door. 

"Yes'm.    Who'll  I  tell  her?" 

Who?  That  stumped  me.  Not  Nance  Olden, 
late  of  the  Vaudeville,  later  of  the  Van  Twiller,  and 
latest  of  the  police  station.  No — not  Nance  Olden 
o  .  .  not  .  .  . 

"Tell  her,  please,"  I  said  firmly,  "that  I'm  Miss 
Murieson,  of  the  X-Ray,  and  that  the  city  editor 
has  sent  me  here  to  see  her." 

That  did  it.  Hooray  for  the  power  of  the  press ! 
She  showed  me  into  a  long  parlor,  and  I  sat  down 
and  waited. 

It  was  cool  and  quiet  and  softly  pretty  in  that 
long  parlor.  The  shades  were  down,  the  piano  was 
open,  the  chairs  were  low  and  softly  cushioned.  I 
leaned  back  and  closed  my  eyes,  exhausted. 

And  suddenly — Mag! — I   felt   something  that 


£50 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

was  a  cross  between  a  rose-leaf  and  a  snowflake 
touch  my  hand. 

If  it  wasn't  that  delectable  baby ! 

I  caught  her  and  lifted  her  to  my  lap  and  hugged 
the  chuckling  thing  as  though  that  was  what  I 
came  for.  Then,  in  a  moment,  I  remembered  the 
paper  and  lifted  her  little  white  slip. 

It  was  gone,  Mag.  The  under-petticoat  hadn't 
a  sign  of  the  paper  I'd  pinned  to  it. 

My  head  whirled  in  that  minute.  I  suppose  I 
was  faint  with  the  heat,  with  hunger  and  fatigue 
and  worry,  but  I  felt  myself  slipping  out  of  things 
when  I  heard  the  rustling  of  skirts,  and  there  be 
fore  me  stood  the  mother  of  my  baby. 

The  little  wretch!  She  deserted  me  and  flew  to 
that  pretty  mother  of  hers  in  her  long,  cool  white 
trailing  things,  and  sat  in  her  arms  and  mocked  at 
me. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  begin  talking.  I  told  her 
a  tale  about  being  a  newspaper  woman  out  on  a 
story ;  how  I'd  run  across  the  baby  and  all  the  rest 
of  it. 

"I  must  ask  your  pardon,"  I  finished  up,  "for 
disturbing  you,  but  two  things  sent  me  here — on* 


IN    THE   BISHOP'S    CARTHAGE 

to  know  if  the  baby  got  home  safe,  and  the  other," 
I  gulped,  "to  ask  about  a  paper  with  some  notes 
that  I'd  pinned  to  her  skirt." 

She  shook  her  head. 

It  was  in  that  very  minute  that  I  noticed  the 
baby's  ribbons  were  pink ;  they  had  been  blue  in  the 
morning., 

"Of  course,"  I  suggested,  "you've  had  her 
clothes  changed  and — " 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  said  baby's  mother. 
"The  first  thing  I  did  when  I  got  hold  of  her  was 
to  strip  her  and  put  her  in  a  tub ;  the  second,  was  to 
discharge  that  gossiping  nurse  for  letting  her  out 
of  her  sight." 

"And  the  soiled  things  she  had  on — the  dress 
with  the  blue  ribbons  ?" 

"I'll  find  out,"  she  said. 

She  rang  for  the  maid  and  gave  her  an  ordere 

"Was  it  a  valuable  paper  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not — very,"  I  stammered.  My  tongue  was 
thick  with  hope  and  dread.  "Just — my  notes,  you 
know,  but  I  do  need  them.  I  couldn't  carry  the 
baby  easily,  so  I  pinned  them  on  her  skirt,  think 
ing1 — Chinking — " 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

The  maid  came  in  and  dumped  a  little  heap  of 
white  before  me.  I  fell  on  my  knees. 

Oh,  yes,  I  prayed  all  right,  but  I  searched,  too. 
And  there  it  was. 

What  I  said  to  that  woman  I  don't  know  even 
now.  I  flew  out  through  the  hall  and  down  the 
steps  and — 

And  there  Kitty  Wilson  corralled  me. 

"Say,  where's  that  stick-pin  ?"  she  cried. 

"Here! — here,  you  darling!"  I  said,  pressing  it 
into  her  hand.  "And,  Kitty,  whenevei  you  feel 
like  swiping  another  purse — just  don't  do  it.  It 
doesn't  pay.  Just  you  come  down  to  the  Vaude 
ville  and  ask  for  Nance  Olden  some  day,  and  I'll 
tell  you  why." 

"Gee!"  said  Kitty,  impressed,  "Shall— shall  I 
call  ye  a  hansom,  lady  ?" 

Should  she !    The  blessed  inspiration  of  her ! 

I  got  into  the  wagon  and  we  drove  down  street — 
.o  the  Vaudeville. 

I  burst  in  past  the  stage  doorkeeper,  amazed  to 
see  me,  and  rushed  into  Fred  Obermuller's  office. 

"There !"  I  cried,  throwing  that  awful  paper  on 
the  desk  before  him.  "Now  cinch  'em,  Fred  Ober- 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

muller,  as  they  cinched  you.  It'll  be  the  holiest 
blackmail  that  ever —  oh,  and  will  you  pay  for 
the  hansom?" 


XVI. 

I  don't  remember  much  about  the  first  part  of  the 
lunch.  I  was  so  hungry  I  wanted  to  eat  everything 
in  sight,  and  so  happy  that  I  couldn't  eat  a  thing. 

But  Mr.  O.  kept  piling  the  things  on  my  plate, 
and  each  time  I  began  to  talk  he'd  say :  "Not  now 
— wait  till  you're  rested,  and  not  quite  so  fam 
ished." 

I  laughed. 

"Do  I  eat  as  though  I  was  starved?" 

"You — you  look  tired,  Nance." 

"Well,"  I  said  slowly,  "it's  been  a  hard  week." 

"It's  been  hard  for  me,  too;  harder,  I  think, 
than  for  you.  It  wasn't  fair  to  me  to  let  me — 
think  what  I  did  and  say  what  I  did.  I'm  so  sorry, 
Naujce, — and  ashamed.  So  ashamed!  You  might 
!ia.ve  told  me." 

"-And  have  you  put  your  foot  down  on  the  whole 
thing ;  not  much !" 

He  laughed.  He's  got  such  a  boyish  laugh  in 
spite  of  his  cliin  and  his  eye-glasses  and  the  big- 
255 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 


ness  of  himc  He  filled  my  glass  for  me  and  helped 
me  again  to  the  salad. 

Oh,  Mag,  it's  such  fun  to  be  a  woman  and  have  a 
man  wait  on  you  like  that!  It's  such  fun  to  be 
hungry  and  to  sit  down  to  a  jolly  little  table  just 
big  enough  for  two,  with  carnations  nodding  in  the 
tall  slim  vase,  with  a  fat,  soft-footed,  quick-handed 
waiter  dancing  behind  you,  and  something  tempt 
ing  in  every  dish  your  eye  falls  on. 

It's  a  gay,  happy,  easy  world,  Maggie  darlin'. 
I  vow  I  can't  find  a  dark  corner  in  it  —  not  to-day. 

None  but  the  swellest  place  in  town  was  good 
enough,  Obermuller  had  said,  for  us  to  celebrate  in. 
The  waiters  looked  queerly  at  us  when  we  came  in  — 
me  in  my  dusty  shoes  and  mussed  hair  and  old  rig, 
and  Mr.  O.  in  his  working  togs.  But  do  you  sup 
pose  we  cared? 

He  was  smoking  and  I  was  pretending  to  eat 
fruit  when  at  last  I  got  fairly  launched  on  my 
story. 

He  listened  to  it  all  with  never  a  word  of  inter 
ruption.  Sometimes  I  thought  he  was  so  interested 
that  he  couldn't  bear  to  miss  a  word  I  said.  And 
then  again  I  fancied  he  wasn't  listening  at  all  to 


256 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

me;  only  watching  me  and  listening  to  something 
inside  of  himself. 

Can  you  see  him,  Mag,  sitting  opposite  me  there 
at  the  pretty  little  table,  off  in  a  private  room  by 
ourselves?  He  looked  so  big  and  strong  and  mas 
terful,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  watching  me,  that 
I  hugged  myself  with  delight  to  think  that  I — I, 
Nancy  Olden,  had  done  something  for  him  he 
couldn't  do  for  himself. 

It  made  me  so  proud,  so  tipsily  vain,  that  as  I 
leaned  forward  eagerly  talking,  I  felt  that  same  in 
toxicating  happiness  I  get  on  the  stage  when  the 
audience  is  all  with  me,  and  the  two  of  us — myself 
and  the  many-handed,  good-natured  other  fellow 
over  on  the  other  side  of  the  footlights — go  career 
ing  off  on  a  jaunt  of  fun  and  fancy,  like  two  good 
playmates. 

He  was  silent  a  minute  when  I  got  through. 
Then  he  laid  his  cigar  aside  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  me. 

"And  the  reason,  Nance — the  reason  for  it  all?" 

I  looked  up  at  him,     I'd  never  heard  him 
like  that. 

"The  reason?"  I  repeated, 


257 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Yes,  the  reason."   He  had  caught  my  hand. 

"Why — to  down  that  tiger  Trust — and  beat 
Tausig." 

He  laughed. 

"And  that  was  all?  Nonsense,  Nance  Olden, 
there  was  another  reason.  There  are  other  tiger 
trusts.  Are  you  going  to  set  up  as  a  lady-errant 
and  right  all  syndicate  wrongs?  No,  there  was 
another,  a  bigger  reason,  Nance.  I'm  going  to 
tell  it  to  you — what!" 

I  pulled  my  hand  from  his ;  but  not  before  that 
fat  waiter  who'd  come  in  without  our  noticing  had 
got  something  to  grin  about. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.  "This  message  must 
be  for  you,  sir.  It's  marked  immediate,  and  no  one 
else—" 

Obermaller  took  it  and  tore  it  open.  He  smiled 
the  oddest  smile  as  he  read  it,  and  he  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  a  full,  hearty  bellow  when  he  got 
to  the  end. 

"Read  it,  Nance,"  he  said,  passing  it  over  to  me. 
"They  sent  it  on  from  the  office." 

I  read  it. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Mr.   Fred  W.    Obermuller,  Manager  Vaudeville 

Theater,  New  York  City,  N.  Y.: 

Dear  Obermuller: — I  have  just  learned  from 
your  little  protegee,  Nance  Olden,  of  a  comedy 
you've  written.  From  what  Miss  Olden  tells  me  of 
the  plot  and  situations  of  And  the  Greatest  of 
These — your  title's  great — I  judge  the  thing  to  be 
something  altogether  out  of  the  common;  and  my 
secretary  and  reader,  Mr.  Mason,  agrees  with  me 
that  properly  interpreted  and  perhaps  touched  up 
here  and  there,  the  comedy  ought  to  make  a  hit. 

Would  Miss  Olden  take  the  leading  role,  I  won 
der? 

Can't  you  drop  in  this  evening  and  talk  the  mat 
ter  over?  There's  an  opening  for  a  fellow  like  you 
with  us  that's  just  developed  within  the  past  few 
days,  and — this  is  strictly  confidential — I  have  suc 
ceeded  in  convincing  Braun  and  Lowenthal  that 
their  enmity  is  a  foolish  personal  matter  which  busi 
ness  men  shouldn't  let  stand  in  the  way  of  business. 
After  all,  just  what  is  there  between  you  and  them? 
A  mere  trifle;  a  misunderstanding  that  half  an 
hour's  talk  over  a  bottle  of  wine  with  a  good  cigar 
would  drive  away. 

]f  you're  the  man  I  take  you  for  you'll  drop  in 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

evening  at  the  Van  Twiller  and  bury  the 
hatchet.  They're  good  fellows,  those  two,  and 
smart  men,  even  if  they  are  stubborn  as  sin. 

Counting  on  seeing  you  to-night,  my  dear  fellow, 
I  am  most  cordially, 

I.  M.  TAUSIG." 

I  dropped  the  letter  and  looked  over  at  Obermul- 
ler. 

"Miss  Olden,"  he  said  severely,  coming  over  to 
my  side  of  the  table,  "have  you  the  heart  to  harm  a 
generous  soul  like  that?" 

"He — he's  very  prompt,  isn't  he,  and  most — " 

And  then  we  laughed  together. 

"You  notice  the  letter  was  marked  personal?" 
Obermuller  said.  He  was  still  standing  beside  me. 

"No — was  it  ?"  I  got  up,  too,  and  began  to  pull 
on  my  gloves ;  but  my  fingers  shook  so  I  couldn't  do 
a  thing  with  them. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was.  That's  why  I  showed  it  to  you. 
.  .  .  Nance — Nance,  don't  you  see  that  there's 
only  one  way  out  of  this  ?  There's  only  one  woman 
in  the  world  that  would  do  this  for  me  and  that  I 
could  take  it  from." 

I  clasped  my  hands  helplessly.  Oh,  what  could  I 
£60 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

do,  Maggie,  with  him  there  and  his  arras  ready  for 
me! 

"I— I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid,"  I  whis 
pered.  I  didn't  dare  look  at  him. 

He  caught  me  to  him  then. 

"Afraid  you  wouldn't  care  for  an  old  fellow  like 
mv?"  he  laughed.  "Yes,  that's  the  only  fear  I  had. 
But  I  lost  it,  Nancy,  Nancy  Oberrnuller,  when  you 
flung  that  paper  down  before  me.  That's  quite  two 

hours  ago — haven't  I  waited  long  enough?" 
*********** 

Oh,  Mag — Mag,  how  can  I  tell  him?  Do  you 
think  he  knows  that  I  am  going  to  be  good — good ! 
that  I  can  be  as  good  for  a  good  man  who  loves 
me,  as  I  was  bad  for  a  bad  man  I  loved ! 


XVII. 

PHILADELPHIA,  January  87. 
Maggie,  dear: 

I'm  writing  to  you  just  before  dinner  while  I 
wait  for  Fred.  He's  down  at  the  box-office  look 
ing  up  advance  sales.  I  tell  you,  Maggie  Mona- 
han,  we're  strictly  in  it — we  Obermullers.  That 
Broadway  hit  of  mine  has  preceded  me  here,  and 
we've  got  the  town,  I  suspect,  in  advance. 

But  I'm  not  writing  to  tell  you  this.  I've  got 
something  more  interesting  to  tell  you,  my  dear 
old  Cruelty  chum. 

I  want  you  to  pretend  to  yourself  that  you  see 
me,  Mag,  as  I  came  out  of  the  big  Chestnut  Street 
store  this  afternoon,  my  arms  full  of  bundles.  I 
must  have  on  that  long  coat  to  my  heels,  of  dark, 
warm  red,  silk-lined,  with  the  long,  incurving  back 
sweep  and  high  chinchilla  collar,  that  Fred  ordered 
made  for  me  the  very  day  we  were  married.  I 
must  be  wearing  that  jolly  little,  red-cloth  toque 
caught  up  on  the  side  with  some  of  the  fur. 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  yes,  I  knew  I  was  more  than  a  year  behind 
the  times  when  I  got  them,  but  a  successful  actress 
wears  what  she  pleases,  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
wears  what  pleases  her,  too.  Besides,  fashions 
don't  mean  so  much  to  you  when  your  husband 
tells  you  how  becoming — but  this  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  Bishop. 

Yes,  the  Bishop,  Mag! 

I  had  just  said,  "Nance  Olden — "  To  myself  I 
still  speak  to  me  as  Nancy  Olden ;  it's  good  for 
me,  Mag;  keeps  me  humble  and  for  ever  grateful 
that  I'm  so  happy.  "Nance,  you'll  never  be  able 
to  carry  all  these  things  and  lift  your  buful  train, 
too.  And  there's  never  a  hansom  round  when  it's 
snowing  and — " 

And  then  I  caught  sight  of  the  carriage.  Yes, 
Maggie,  the  same  fat,  low,  comfortable,  elegant, 
sober  carriage,  wide  and  well-kept,  with  rubber- 
tired  wheels.  And  the  two  heavy  horses,  fat  and 
elegant  and  sober,  too,  and  wide  and  well-kept.  I 
knew  whose  it  was  the  minute  my  eyes  lighted  on 
it,  and  I  couldn't — I  just  couldn't  resist  it. 

The  man  on  the  box — still  wide  and  well-kept — 
was  wide-awake  this  time.     I  nodded  to  him  as  I 
slipped  in  and  closed  the  door  after  me. 
263 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CAHRIAGE 

"I'll  wait  for  the  Bishop,"  I  said,  with  a  red* 
coated  assurance  that  left  him  no  alternative  but 
to  accept  the  situation  respectfully. 

Oh,  dear,  dear!  It  was  soft  and  warm  inside 
as  it  had  been  that  long,  long-ago  day.  The  seat 
was  wide  and  roomy.  The  cushions  had  been  done 
over — I  resented  that — but  though  a  different  ma 
terial,  they  were  a  still  darker  plum.  And  instead 
of  Quo  Vadis,  the  Bishop  had  been  reading  Res 
urrection. 

I  took  it  up  and  glanced  over  it  as  I  sat  there; 
but,  you  know,  Mag,  the  heavy-weight  plays  never 
appealed  to  me.  I  don't  go  in  for  the  tragic — 
perhaps  I  saw  too  much  of  the  real  thing  when  I 
was  little. 

At  any  rate,  it  seemed  dull  to  me,  and  I  put  it 
aside  and  sat  there  absent-mindedly  dreaming  of 
a  little  girl-thief  that  I  knew  once  when — when  the 
[handle  of  the  door  turned  and  the  Bishop  got  in, 
and  we  were  off. 

Oh,  the  little  Bishop — the  contrast  between  him 
>»nd  the  fat,  pompous  rig  caught  me !  He  seemed 
littler  and  leaner  than  ever,  his  little  white  beard 
scantier,  his  soft  eye  kindlier  and  his  soft  heart — 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed,  jumping  al 
most  out  of  his  neat  little  boots,  while  he  looked 
sharply  over  his  spectacles. 

What  did  he  see?  Just  a  red-coated  ghost 
dreaming  in  the  corner  of  his  carriage.  It  made 
him  doubt  his  eyes — his  sanity.  I  don't  know  what 
he'd  have  done  if  that  warm  red  ghost  hadn't  got 
tired  of  dreaming  and  laughed  outright. 

"Daddy,"  I  murmured  sleepily. 

Oh,  that  little  ramrod  of  a  bishop!  The  blood 
rushed  up  under  his  clear,  thin,  baby -like  skin  and 
he  sat  up  straight  and  solemn  and  awful — awful 
as  such  a  tiny  bishop  could  be. 

"I  fear,  Miss,  you  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  said 
primly. 

I  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"You  know  I  haven't,"  I  said  gently. 

That  took  some  of  the  starch  out  of  him,  but 
he  eyed  me  suspiciously. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  where  I  got  the  coat, 
Bishop  Van  Wagenen?"  I  said,  leaning  over  to 
him. 

He  started.  I  suppose  he'd  just  that  moment 
remembered  my  leaving  it  behind  that  day  at  Mrs. 
Ramsay's. 

365 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

<cLord  bless  me!"  he  cried  anxiously.  "You 
ihaven't — you  haven't  again — " 

"No,  I  haven't."  Ah,  Maggie,  dear,  it  was 
worth  a  lot  to  me  to  be  able  to  say  that  "no"  to  him. 
"It  was  given  to  me.  Guess  who  gave  it  to  me." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"My  husband!" 

Maggie  Monahan,  he  didn't  even  blink.  Per 
haps  in  the  Bishop's  set  husbands  are  not  uncom 
mon,  or  very  likely  they  don't  know  what  a  hus 
band  like  Fred  Obermuller  means. 

"I  congratulate  you,  my  child,  or — or  did  it — 
were  you — " 

"Why,  I'd  never  seen  Fred  Obermuller  then,"  I 
cried.  "Can't  you  tell  a  difference,  Bishop?"  I 
pleaded.  "Don't  I  look  like  a — an  imposing  mar 
ried  woman  now?  Don't  I  seem  a  bit — oh,  just  a 
bit  nicer?" 

His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  bent  to  kx>r  more  closely 
at  me. 

"You  look — you  look,  my  >&ttie  girl,  exactly  like 
the  pretty,  big-eyed,  wheedling-voiced  child  I 
wished  to  have  for  my  own  daughter." 

I  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  mine. 


266 


Is 

o  „ 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

"Now,  that's  like  my  own,  own  Bishop !"  I  cried. 

Mag — Mag,  he  was  blushing  like  a  boy,  a  prim, 
rather  scared  little  school-boy  that  somehow,  yet — 
oh,  I  knew  he  must  feel  kindly  to  me!  I  felt  so 
fond  of  him. 

"You  see,  Bishop  Van  Wagenen,"  I  began  soft 
ly,  "I  never  had  a  father  and — " 

"Bless  me!  But  you  told  me  that  day  you  had 
mistaken  me  for — for  him." 

The  baby !  I  had  forgotten  what  that  old  Ed 
ward  told  me — that  this  trusting  soul  actually  still 
believed  all  I'd  told  him.  What  was  I  to  do?  I 
tell  you,  Mag,  it's  no  light  thing  to  get  accustomed 
to  telling  the  truth.  You  never  know  where  it'll 
lead  you.  Here  was  I — just  a  clever  little  lie  or 
two  and  the  dear  old  Bishop  would  be  happy  and 
contented  again.  But  no;  ';hat  fatal  habit  that 
Fve  acquired  of  telling  the  truth  to  Fred  and  you 
mastered  me — and  I  fell. 

"You  know,  Bishop,"  I  said,  shutting  my  eyes 
and  speaking  fast  to  get  it  over — as  I  imagine  you 
must,  Mag,  when  you  confess  to  Father  Fhelan— 
"that  was  all  a — a  little  farce-comedy — the  whole 
business — all  of  it — every  last  word  of  it !" 

"A  comedy !" 

267 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  opened  my  eyes  to  laugh  at  him ;  he  was  so  be 
wildered. 

"I  mean  a — a  fib;  in  fact,  many  of  them.  I — I 
was  just — it  was  long  ago — and  I  had  to  make  you 
believe — " 

His  soft  old  eyes  looked  at  me  unbelieving. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  deliberately  lied !" 

Now,  that  was  what  I  did  mean — just  what  I 
did  mean — but  not  in  that  tone  of  voice. 

But  what  could  I  do?  I  just  looked  at  him  and 
nodded. 

Oh,  Maggie,  I  felt  so  little  and  so  nasty!  I 
haven't  felt  like  that  since  I  left  the  Cruelty.  And 
I'm  not  nasty,  Maggie,  and  I'm  Fred  Obermuller's 
wife,  and — 

And  that  put  a  backbone  in  me  again.  Fred 
Obermuller's  wife  just  won't  let  anybody  think 
worse  of  her  than  she  can  help — from  sheer  love 
and  pride  in  that  big,  clever  husband  of  hers. 

"Now,  look  here,  Bishop  Van  Wagenen,"  I 
broke  out,  "if  I  were  the  abandoned  little  wretch 
your  eyes  accuse  me  of  being  I  wouldn't  be  in  your 
carriage  confessing  to  you  this  blessed  minute  when 
it'd  be  so  much  easier  not  to.  Surely — surely,  in 
your  experience  you  must  have  met  girls  that  go 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

wrong — and  then  go  right  for  ever  and  ever,  Amen. 
'And  I'm  very  right  now.  But — but  it  has  been 
hard  for  me  at  times.  And  at  those  times — ah,  you 
must  know  how  sincerely  I  mean  it — at  those  times 
I  used  to  try  to  recall  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
when  you  said  you'd  like  to  take  me  home  with  you 
and  keep  me.  If  I  had  been  your  daughter  you'd 
have  had  a  heart  full  of  loving  care  for  me.  And 
yet,  if  I  had  been,  and  had  known  that  benevolent 
fatherhood,  I  should  need  it  less — so  much  less 
than  I  did  the  day  I  begged  a  prayer  from  you. 
.  .  .  But — it's  all  right  now.  You  don't  know 
— do  you? — I'm  Nance  Olden." 

That  made  him  sit  up  and  stare,  I  tell  you. 
Even  the  Bishop  had  heard  of  Nancy  Olden.  But 
suddenly,  unaccountably,  there  came  a  queer,  sad 
look  over  his  face,  and  his  eyes  wouldn't  meet  mine. 

I  looked  at  him  puzzled. 

"Tell  m*  what  it  is,"  I  said. 

"You  evidently  forget  that  you  have  already 
told  me  you  are  the  wife  of  Mr. — Mr.  Obcr — " 

"Obermuller.  Oh,  that's  all  right."  I  laughed 
aloud.  I  was  so  relieved.  "Of  course  I  am,  and 
he's  my  manager,  and  my  playwright,  and  my  seo- 


269 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

retary,  and — my — my  dear,  dear  boy.  There!"  I 
wasn't  laughing  at  the  end  of  it.  I  never  can 
laugh  when  I  try  to  tell  what  Fred  is  to  me. 

But— funny? — that  won  him. 

"There!  there!"  he  said,  patting  me  on  the 
shoulder.  "Forgive  me,  my  dear.  I  am  indeed 
glad  to  know  that  you  are  living  happily.  I  have 
often  thought  of  you — " 

"Oh,  have  you?" 

"Yes — I  have  even  told  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen 
about  you  and  how  I  was  attracted  to  you  and  be 
lieved — ahem !" 

"Oh — oh,  have  you!"  I  gave  a  wriggle  as  I 
remembered  that  Maltese  lace  Maria  wanted  and 
that  I— ugh! 

But,  luckily,  he  didn't  notice.  He  had  taken  my 
hand  and  was  looking  at  me  over  his  spectacles  in 
his  dear,  fatherly  old  way. 

"Tell  me  now,  my  dear,  is  there  anything  that 
an  old  clergyman  can  do  for  you?  I  have  an  en 
gagement  near  here  and  we  may  not  meet  again. 
I  can't  hope  to  find  you  in  my  carriage  many  more 
times.  You  are  happy — you  are  living  worthily, 
child?  Pardon  me,  but  the  stage — " 


870 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

Oh,  the  gentle  courtesy  of  his  manner!  I  loved 
his  solicitude.  Father-hungry  girls  like  us,  Mag 
gie,  know  how  to  value  a  thing  like  that. 

"You  know,"  I  said  slowly,  "the  thing  that  keeps 
a  woman  straight  and  a  man  faithful  is  not  a  mat-? 
ter  of  bricks  and  mortar  nor  ways  of  thinking  nor 
habits  of  living.  It's  something  finer  and  stronger 
than  these.  It's  the  magic  taboo  of  her  love  for 
him  and  his  for  her  that  makes  them — sacred. 
With  that  to  guard  them — why — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  patted  my  hand  softly.  "Still, 
the  old  see  the  dangers  of  an  environment  that  a 
young  and  impulsive  woman  like  you,  my  dear, 
might  be  blind  to.  Your  associates — " 

"My  associates?  Oh,  you've  heard  about  Beryl 
Blackburn.  Well — she's — she's  just  Beryl,  you 
know.  She  wasn't  made  to  live  any  different. 
Some  people  steal  and  some  drink  and  some  gam 
ble  and  some  .  .  .  Well,  Beryl  belongs  to  the 
last  class.  She  doesn't  pretend  to  be  better  than 
she  is.  And,  just  between  you  and  me,  Bishop, 
I've  more  respect  for  a  girl  of  that  kind  than  for 
Grace  Weston,  whose  husband  is  my  leading  man, 
you  know.  Why,  she  pulls  the  wool  over  his  eyes 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

and  makes  him  the  laughing-stock  of  the  company, 
I  can't  stand  her  any  more  than  I  can  Marie  Avon, 
who's  never  without  two  strings — " 

All  at  once  I  stopped.  But  wasn't  it  like  me  to 
spoil  it  all  by  bubbling  over?  I  tell  you,  Maggie, 
too  much  truth  isn't  good  for  the  Bishop's  set; 
they  don't  know  how  to  digest  it. 

I  was  afraid  that  I'd  lost  him,  for  he  spoke  with 
a  stately  little  primness  as  the  carriage  just  then 
came  to  a  stop;  I  had  been  so  interested  talking 
that  I  hadn't  noticed  where  we  were  driving. 

"Ah,  here  we  are !"  he  said.  "I  must  ask  you  to 
excuse  me,  Miss — ah,  Mrs. — that  is — there's  a  pub 
lic  meeting  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Children  this  afternoon  that  I  must  at 
tend.  Good-by,  then-—" 

"Oh,  are  you  bound  for  the  Cruelty,  too?"  I 
asked.  "Why,  so  am  I.  And — yes — yes — that's 
the  Cruelty!" 

The  Cruelty  stands  just  where  it  did,  Mag, 
when  you  and  I  first  saw  it;  most  things  do  in 
Philadelphia,  you  know.  There's  the  same  prim, 
official  straight  up-and-downness  about  the  brick 
front.  The  steps  don't  look  so  steep  now  and  the 
building's  not  so  high,  perhaps  because  of  a  skj- 
878 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

scraper  or  two  that've  gone  up  since.  But  it  chills 
your  blood,  Maggie  darlin',  just  as  it  always  did, 
to  think  what  it  stands  for.  Not  man's  inhumanity 
to  man,  but  women's  cruelty  to  children !  Maggie, 
think  of  it,  if  you  can,  as  though  this  were  the  first 
time  you'd  heard  of  such  a  thing !  Would  you  be 
lieve  it  ? 

I  waked  from  that  to  find  myself  marching  up 
the  stairs  behind  the  Bishop's  rigid  little  back. 
Oh,  it  was  stiff  and  uncompromising !  Beryl  Black 
burn  did  that  for  me.  Poor,  pretty,  pagan  Beryl ! 

My  coming  with  the  Bishop — we  seemed  to  come 
together,  anyway — made  the  people  think  he'd 
brought  me,  so  I  must  be  just  all  right.  I  had  the 
man  bring  in  the  toys  I'd  got  out  in  the  carriage, 
and  I  handed  them  over  to  the  matron,  saying : 

"They're  for  the  children.  I  want  them  to  have 
them  all  and  now,  please,  to  do  whatever  they  want 
with  them.  There'll  always  be  others.  I'm  going 
to  send  them  right  along,  if  you'll  let  me,  so  that 
those  who  leave  can  take  something  of  their  very 
own  with  them — something  that  never  belonged  to 
anybody  else  but  just  themselves,  you  understand. 
It's  terrible,  don't  you  know,  to  be  a  deserted  child 
or  a  tortured  child  or  a  crippled  child  and  have 
273 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

nothing  to  do  but  sit  up  in  that  bare,  clean  b'ttle 
room  upstairs  with  a  lot  of  other  strangelings — 
and  just  think  on  the  cruelty  that's  brought  you 
here  and  the  cruelty  you  may  get  into  when  you 
leave  here.  If  I'd  had  a  doll — if  Mag  had  only 
had  a  set  of  dishes  or  a  little  tin  kitchen — if  the 
boy  with  the  gouged  eye  could  have  had  a  set  of 
tools — oh,  can't  you  understand — " 

I  became  conscious  then  that  the  matron — a  new 
one,  Mag,  ours  is  gone — was  staring  at  me,  and 
that  the  people  stood  around  listening  as  though 
I'd  gone  mad. 

Who  came  to  my  rescue?  Why,  the  Bishop,  like 
the  manly  little  fellow  he  is.  He  forgave  me  even 
Beryl  in  that  moment. 

"It's  Nance  Olden,  ladies,"  he  said,  with  a  digni 
fied  little  wave  of  his  hand  that  served  for  an  in 
troduction.  "She  begins  her  Philadelphia  engage 
ment  to-night  in  And  the  Greatest  of  These." 

Oh,  I'm  used  to  it  now,  Maggie,  but  I  do  like  it. 
All   the  lady-swells  buzzed   about  me,  and  there 
Nance  stood  preening  herself  and  crowing  softly 
till — till  from  among  the  bunch  of  millinery  one^ 
of  them  stepped  up  to  me.     She  had  a  big  smooth 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

face  with  plenty  of  chins.  Her  hair  was  white  and 
her  nose  was  curved  and  she  rustled  in  silk  and — 

It  was  Mrs.  Dowager  Diamonds,  alias  Henrietta, 
alias  Mrs.  Edward  Ramsay! 

"Clever!  My,  how  clever!"  she  exclaimed,  as 
though  the  sob  in  my  voice  that  I  couldn't  control 
had  been  a  bit  of  acting. 

She  was  feeling  for  her  glasses.  When  she  got 
them  and  hooked  them  on  her  nose  and  got  a  good 
look  at  me — why,  she  just  dropped  them  with  a 
smash  upon  the  desk. 

I  looked  for  a  minute  from  her  to  the  Bishop. 

"I  remember  you  very  well,  Mrs.  Ramsay.  I 
hope  you  haven't  forgotten  me.  I've  often  wanted 
to  thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  I  said  slowly, 
while  she  as  slowly  recovered.  "I  think  you'll  be 
glad  to  know  that  I  am  thoroughly  well — cured. 
.  .  .  Shall  I  tell  Mrs.  Ramsay  how,  Bishop?" 

I  put  it  square  up  to  him.  And  he  met  it  like  the 
little  man  he  is — perhaps,  too,  my  bit  of  charity 
to  the  Cruelty  children  had  pleased  him. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary,  Miss  Olden," 
he  said  gently.  "I  can  do  that  for  you  at  some 
future  time." 


IN   THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

And  I  could  have  hugged  him;  but  I  didn't 
dare. 

We  had  tea  there  in  the  Board  rooms.  Oh,  Mag, 
remember  how  we  used  to  peep  into  those  awful, 
imposing  Board  rooms!  Remember  how  strange 
and  resentful  you  felt — like  a  poor  little  red- 
haired  nigger  up  at  the  block — when  you  were 
brought  in  there  to  be  shown  to  the  woman  who'd 
called  to  adopt  you ! 

It  was  all  so  strange  that  I  had  to  keep  talking 
to  keep  from  dreaming.  I  was  talking  away  to 
the  matron  and  the  Bishop  about  the  play-room 
I'm  going  to  fit  up  out  of  that  bare  little  place  up 
stairs.  Perhaps  the  same  child  doesn't  stay  there 
very  long,  but  there'll  always  be  children  to  fill  it 
— more's  the  cruel  pity ! 

Then  the  Bishop  and  I  climbed  up  there  to  see 
it  and  plan  about  it.  But  I  couldn't  really  see  it, 
Mag,  nor  the  poor,  white-faced,  wise-eyed  little 
waifs  that  have  succeeded  us,  for  the  tears  in  my 
eyes  and  the  ache  at  my  heart  and  the  queer  trick 
the  place  has  of  being  peopled  with  you  and  me, 
and  the  boy  with  the  gouged  eye,  and  the  cripple, 
and  the  rest. 

He  put  his  gentle  thin  old  arm  about  my  shoul* 
276 


IN    THE    BISHOPS    CARRIAGE 

dcrs  for  a  moment  when  he  saw  what  was  the  mat 
ter  with  me.  Oh,  he  understands,  my  Bishop! 
And  then  we  turned  to  go  downstairs. 

"Oh — I  want — I  want  to  do  something  for 
them,"  I  cried.  "I  want  to  do  something  that 
counts,  that's  got  a  heart  in  it,  that  knows!  You 
knew,  didn't  you,  it  was  true — what  I  said  down 
stairs?  I  was — I  am  a  Cruelty  girl.  Help  me  to 
help  others  like  me." 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  very  stately  and  sweet,  "I'll 
be  proud  to  be  your  assistant.  You've  a  kind,  true 
heart  and — " 

And  just  at  that  minute,  as  I  was  preceding 
him  down  the  narrow  steps,  a  girl  in  a  red  coat 
trimmed  with  chinchilla  and  in  a  red  toque  with 
some  of  the  same  fur  blocked  our  way  as  she  was 
coming  up. 

We  looked  at  each  other.  You've  seen  two  pea 
cocks  spread  their  tails  and  strut  as  they  pass  each 
other?  Well,  the  peacock  coming  up  wasn't  in  it 
with  the  one  going  down.  Her  coat  wasn't  so  fine, 
nor  so  heavy,  nor  so  newly,  smartly  cut.  Her 
toque  wasn't  so  big  nor  so  saucy,  and  the  fur  on  it 
— not  to  mention  that  the  descending  peacock  was 
a  brunette  and  „  „  .  well,  Mag,  I  had  my 

«TT 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

day.  Miss  Evelyn  Kingdon  paid  me  back  in  that 
minute  for  all  the  envy  I've  spent  on  that  pretty 
rig  of  hers. 

She  didn't  recognize  me,  of  course,  even  though 
the  two  red  coats  were  so  near,  as  she  stopped  to  let 
me  pass,  that  they  kissed  like  sisters,  ere  they 
parted.  But,  Mag,  Nancy  Olden  never  got 
haughty  that  there  wasn't  a  fall  waiting  for  her. 
Back  of  Miss  Kingdon  stood  Mrs.  Kingdon — still 
Mrs.  Kingdon,  thanks  to  Nance  Olden — and  be 
hind  her,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  was  a  frail  little 
old-fashioned  bundle  of  black  satin  -and  old  lace. 
I  lost  my  breath  when  the  Bishop  hailed  his  wife. 

"Maria,"  he  said — some  men  say  their  wives' 
first  names  all  the  years  of  their  lives  as  they  said 
them  on  their  wedding-day — "I  want  you  to  meet 
Miss  Olden — Nance  Olden,  the  comedian.  She's 
the  girl  I  wanted  for  my  daughter — you'll  remem- 
bev,  it's  more  than  a  year  ago  now  since  I  began  to 
talk  about  her?" 

I  held  my  breath  while  I  waited  for  her  answer. 
But  her  poor,  short-sighted  eyes  rested  on  my  hot 
face  without  a  sign. 

"It's  an  old  joke  among  us,"  she  said  pleasantly, 
"about  the  Bishop's  daughter." 
278 


IN   THE   BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

We  stood  there  and  chatted,  and  the  Bishop 
turned  away  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Kingdon.  Then  I 
seized  my  chance. 

"I've  heard,  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen,"  I  said  softly 
and  oh,  as  nicely  as  I  could,  "of  your  fondness  for 
lace.  We  are  going  abroad  in  the  spring,  my  hus 
band  and  I,  to  Malta,  among  other  places.  Can't 
I  get  you  a  piece  there  as  a  souvenir  of  the  Bishop's 
kindness  to  me?" 

Her  little  lace-mittened,  parchment-like  hands 
clasped  and  unclasped  with  an  almost  childish 
eagerness. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  very  much;  but  if 
you  would  give  the  same  sum  to  charity — " 

"I  will,"  I  laughed.  She  couldn't  guess  how 
glad  I  was  to  do  this  thing.  "And  I'll  spend  just 
as  much  on  your  lace  and  be  so  happy  if  you'll 
accept  it." 

I  promised  Henrietta  a  box  for  to-night,  Mag 
gie,  and  one  to  Mrs.  Kingdon.  The  Dowager  told 
me  she'd  love  to  come,  though  her  husband  is  out 
of  town,  unfortunately,  she  said. 

"But  you'll  come  with  me,  won't  you,  Bishop?" 
she  said,  turning  to  him.    "And  you,  Mrs.  Van?" 
The  Bishop  blushed.  Was  he  thinking  of  Beryl, 
279 


IN    THE    BISHOP'S    CARRIAGE 

I  wonder.  But  I  didn't  hear  his  answer,  for  it  was 
at  that  moment  that  I  caught  Fred's  voice.  He 
had  told  me  he  was  going  to  call  for  me.  I  think 
he  fancied  that  the  old  Cruelty  would  depress  me 
• — as  dreams  of  it  have,  you  know ;  and  he  wanted 
to  come  and  carry  me  away  from  it,  just  as  at 
night,  when  I've  waked  shivering  and  moaning, 
I've  felt  his  dear  arms  lifting  me  out  of  the  black 
night-memory  of  it. 

But  it  was  anything  but  a  doleful  Nance  he 
found  and  hurried  down  the  snowy  steps  out  to  a 
hansom  and  off  to  rehearsal.  For  the  Bishop  had 
said  to  rne,  "God  bless  you,  child,"  when  he  shook 
hands  with  both  of  us  at  parting,  and  the  very 
Cruelty  seemed  to  smile  a  grim  benediction,  as  we 
drove  off  together,  on  Fred  and 

NANCY  O. 


£80 


The  first  chapter  of  thii  book  appeared  as  a 
ihort  story  in  Ainslee's  Magazine,  to  the  pub 
lishers  of  which  the  author  makes  acknowledgment 
of  her  obligation  for  permission  to  reprint  it. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


-7, '33 


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